








aV c 0 N c V' J * * s 

■> f O 

V\ s. ✓ 




cv? . * v 1 * * 


° 0 \ 

- *" 1 ’ V ' s' ** f 

« -<> V 

r ■<<■ c. <*• 

• . 

z z 

o 

* \/ ^ o VJ&AF * 

^ . V • * <5 S> -A 

sS J* *v.., y °*^ a A 

• 0 ^ A r * 

s: 



T- <3 Cl « -*> - • .^N 'AS*. <* 

*. 4 "- 

^ V*JB8^ ^ * * 

'-D, ^ y s S ,6 X* y 0oX 

< "“«. y ©. * . 0 * v* l i!*, .,•»' 


.>-'. a> 

^ K 



^ ^ <* ^ * 
r 0 v s* k * A^ X 

0 Js ^>v7^_ 1 'P 

* A' 

_/7\ •* ■J-* % o «\ 







u v S 



A' c o*c -Z- ' 

1 T> A C-V . / < J 


V ^ u V S 4 > 

K <$ A\ 

-1 'p 

' ^ ^ o 

: °* : 

* s p.0 ‘ o *?w*s 

0 . 0 V ~0 V S O.V- 

0 V V v v s' 



ft ft S 


* 

+ 


. J ° 

0 V v * v 
; ^ J^/7 

K k *p 

i 'P 

/% 'P ~fr. 

<. JSg'l(A 

A 'f* ‘^£-~ - ~ 




t 7 

,v> ^ 5 


A -V ' ft c 

0 N c ’ ^ * * S ^ , V I ft 4 7 0 

r V . s ■i ■‘ip 


* 

✓ 

*y V 
© 0 

C* t- ^ a - cf, ✓ 




V v '<*> 

V s ft V > ^-\ ^ 

V s' ' fy s* -9 k 1 

S' z . A> r 

y> V 


*°°* : 

< ' !>NO ’ x 0 f0 ,A*»,~' 2 C. 

r- <? 3P) * <fV 

^ r . % <*♦ 

■tT v 5 ^ 

^ / °a^»; -o.x >• •*' 

<* 






- cL* V ^ 

A O *, 

a o»; e, 


v ft o 



* oN 

'* C V- v - ^ u <* 

o Va Ah * 

° tr> <$ 

z z 

o c$ "^C- ° v/ && \\1° A> v 

- JS? ^ ■'.W, * 

•.s” A* < 'o.x* A 

ft ft S *4 V . V. 

0° v*^, ^ 

V 4fe// ( //V*? ^ 

^ V *• " 

o 0 X 




V 



> V ° ^ ^ 
o ^ ** 

■S . * 

*0,0 O ^ '' 6 ^ / \' oJ* 

'» - 0 '/ o . 0 ,% '"'* v /,s 

v » £:M/rP ° x *$> <& ; 

vV ^ - ^fi^ 7 o , $ 

<£-, * -o V* vf- 

^ ^;WF v a v ft 1 

,,/ A .^%\"''”'V^*'' 



■w 




^ ® A>* 


,v 



^ ^ l 

, "’’' v '^" >, ' , "V 

■^> * 


<^> ^ ° 



/c'"'.,V''”' ,- 0 ^ G v A 1 * * /<* 

x o o x 

* c *zyjM * y 'tc. * 

0 C* V ’ *f > 

5» * s * 

■ ° ^ ,v * * 






-y 

^ v^' 

» °- <> 

| : '% / \ ^ <& - 

* \V </>, 



- * v ,j >, * y a 

* *s c> -i <>- z **§x/ty-0P ^ 

. . < V ,,, V vv<><» - l “ 


o 



z 

O 

y 

* >*> 









































CARINA 


A NOVEL 

BY 

ISABEL C. CLARKE 



> > > 


New York, Cincinnati, Chicago 

BENZIGER BROTHERS 

Publishers of Benzigxr’s Magazine 

1923 






























Copyright 1923, by Bewziger Brothers 


c 


( 



©C1A69C128 


Printed in the United States of America 


Muriel Press 


With 

The Author's Love 


4 


CARINA 


/ 


CHAPTER I 

T HE groves of cypresses lifted their dark points, 
slender as flames, to the blue dome of an April 
sky. Campo Verano, that vast burying-place of the 
Roman dead, lay bathed in brilliant sunshine from 
end to end. Delicate mists of emerald spread lightly 
over bushes and shrubs. The pink monthly roses, 
that blossom so generously in Italy from early spring 
until the first December frosts come to blight them, 
scattered rosy drifts upon the tombs. To unaccus¬ 
tomed eyes there was something arresting and sump¬ 
tuous about many of those tombs. There were 
chapels, built of gleaming marble, fashioned after 
the model of Greek temples; mausoleums with a sug¬ 
gestion of the baroque in their domed roofs, their 
opulent decoration of finely-polished colored marbles, 
many of them displaying through wrought-iron gates 
a tomb of sarcophagus shape whereon the Holy 
Sacrifice could be offered for the silent inmate. There 
were also immense, solid circular tombs, built in min- 
iature imitation of the famous mausoleum of Cecilia 
Metella on the Appian Way. And everywhere the 
tall lamps with their colored globes, pink, crimson, 
blue, yellow and white, lifted their heads like a forest 
of bright-hued flowers, above the turf, the marble 
slabs, the clipped circular bushes of box. 

Richard Grove paused before an ornate Greek 

r 


8 


CARINA 


temple, erected as a last resting-place for the mem¬ 
bers of a noble Roman family, whose name and 
coat-of-arms it bore. The touch of arrogance, of 
conscious importance, seemed to him almost out of 
place here, in this vast democracy of the dead. He 
turned with relief to a humbler tomb, decorated with 
a painting of two children clasping each other. He 
paused to examine it. The portraits represented a 
little smiling dark-eyed boy of seven, and a darling 
little girl of perhaps a couple of years younger. A 
sudden expression of compassion came into his eyes. 
They had died in the same month—perhaps of some 
fatal epidemic. . . . The name printed there was 
unknown to him, and it was consoling to turn to the 
date and to learn that the tragedy was more than 
forty years old. Even to those agonized parents 
Time must have brought alms for oblivion. 

He wandered on in leisurely manner, climbed some 
steps and followed a broad path shaded by trees. 
He glanced from time to time at the numbers indi¬ 
cated. Never such a puzzling place as Campo 
Verano! . . . But he had the address clearly writ¬ 
ten. Poor child, poor little Mary Ramsden, dying 
here in Rome with only her patient, wonderful elder 
sister to tend her. A long illness—it must have prac¬ 
tically exhausted their resources. And in War-time 
too, when life in Rome had been both difficult and 
expensive. Unless that last book of Carina’s? . . . 
But no, it hadn’t done well. Stress of circumstances 
had been altogether too strong for the plucky little 
author, struggling gallantly against appalling odds. 

He looked up and saw a girl coming down the 
path toward him. Her figure cast a squat, black 
blot of shadow on the ground. She was dressed 
from head to foot in black, and her head and face 
were closely swathed in the long dim veil that mourn¬ 
ing women wear in Italy. It gave her almost the 


CARINA 


9 


aspect of a widow. She moved with an easy, boyish 
grace. As she drew nearer she stopped suddenly 
and held out her hand. “Richard!” 

It was the girl of whom just now his thoughts had 
been so full—Carina Ramsden. 

“I called at your place,” he said, “and they told 
me you were out. They thought I might find you 
here. And anyhow I intended to come.” 

She threw back her veil; in that sable frame her 
face showed a pallid oblong. Her eyes were dark 
and darkly fringed, in color they were of some 
mingled grey and green hue, and they looked darker 
by reason of the heavy shadows that now encircled 
them. The glimpse of her hair, clipped short and 
worn thickly over the ears, showed a warm chestnut 
mingled with gold. She was perfectly controlled, but 
her mouth had a compressed look that he did not 
remember having noticed before. 

“Were you looking for Mary’s grave?” she in¬ 
quired. 

Richard Grove glanced almost awkwardly at the 
piece of paper he was still holding in his hand. 

“Yes. They wrote down the number for me.” 

“It isn’t difficult to find, really. Just this way. . .” 

She turned back and he followed her. She walked 
a little ahead of him, so that now he could not see 
her face at all. He watched her, half-fascinated. She 
was strangely full of assurance. She held her head 
high; there was something of arrogance in her mien. 
He remembered a saying of his own: “Sorrow in¬ 
variably turns women to pulp or to stone.” Sorrow 
had evidently encased Carina Ramsden with a new 
armor. 

But it was kind of her, he felt, to present such a 
calm, immovable front to him. He had, as one of 
her oldest friends and as a friend of her late father’s, 
dreaded this inevitable meeting that had just been 


IO 


CARINA 


so simply accomplished. Silence and reserve were 
natural to him, yet he had felt that some mention 
of Mary would be unavoidable, and he had been 
teasing his brain to find some word of sympathy that 
should not be too inadequate in this comfortless grief 
of Carina’s. But she had spared him the trouble 
of making any speech of the kind; there had even 
been, as one might say, a staving off of any formal 
expression of condolence, just as if she recognized 
in him too old a friend for convention. He knew 
what she was suffering—what she had suffered—so 
well, that to him she need not even make mention 
of it. And yet he had the feeling that so long as 
she continued to hold him thus, as it were at arm’s 
length, the gulf between them must remain, unbridged 
by any attempt at sympathy on his part. 

As he followed Carina through the intricate laby¬ 
rinths of tombs and mausoleums, their bright white¬ 
ness softened by the delicate spring green of the 
trees and bushes that surrounded them, while the 
cypresses made a sombre background deep and soft 
as velvet, he was thinking of her father, Alfred 
Ramsden, one of the few intimate comrades he had 
ever had. He remembered his last words to him: 
“Dick, I needn’t ask you to keep an eye on my two 
poor little girls. I know my sister, Nora Murray, 
will do all she can. . . but they’re wonderful 

children, you know, and perhaps she won’t always 
understand them. ...” 

It was indeed this remembrance that had con¬ 
strained him, after hearing of Mary’s death, to 
make an almost immediate journey to Rome, to see 
the surviving sister. It was his first visit to Rome, 
although he. had “used” many of the great cities of 
Europe in his work as writer and novelist. And since 
his arrival he had had the sense that the place was 
slightly unreal. So familiar from photographs, and 


CARINA 


n 


yet so unlike any pictured presentment. This blue 
sky, for instance, those sharp dark cypresses, these 
paths and alleys of the dead in this new city of theirs, 
remote, outside the walls of that ancient city to which 
they had once so proudly belonged; consecrated to 
those vast hosts of the departed with all its flowers, 
its trees, its sunshine. A metropolis whose citizens 
had fallen upon silence. . . . 

From the living sister his thoughts turned to the 
dead one. Mary Ramsden had never seemed to 
him quite human. She was elfin, eager, a thing of 
flame. Her very beauty was elusive and impalp¬ 
able. One of those delicious people for whom one 
could never prophesy long life. She was made of 
“spirit, fire and dew;” there was nothing solid about 
her that could be seized and held. The imprison¬ 
ing flesh had been altogether too fragile to contain 
that fine, ardent soul, She had passed out of life 
at twenty-two years old. He had come here to look 
at her grave. Carina, cool and composed, was the 
least moved of the two. Her footsteps falling with 
a sharp and light precision on the path, displayed 
no least faltering. 

Suddenly she stopped and glanced back, as if to 
see whether Richard were still following her. He 
came quickly to her side. They were standing beside 
a grave with a marble cross erected upon it. To the 
cross a fine bronze Crucifix had been attached. 
Below there was a plot of grass planted with rose- 
trees. Richard Grove read the inscription; it was 
in English. 

Of your charity pray for the soul of Mary 
Ramsden, daughter of Alfred and Caroline 
Ramsden, who died in Rome on March 28th, 

19— aged twenty-two years. R. I. P. 


12 


CARINA 


Richard Grove did not trust himself to speak. 
He wished that Carina would break the silence. 
When she knelt down, crossed herself and murmured 
a prayer, he followed her example. Then quietly 
she rose and looked at him with those queer dark 
eyes of hers. 

“How she lives!" she said. 

“Yes,” he assented. 

The sunlight beating upon his uncovered head, 
had become almost painful. 

“Sometimes I can’t believe it,” said Carina, her 
eyes fixed upon the fragile pink of the roses. 

“I think—that’s often the way at first,” said Grove. 

His wife had been dead for more than twenty 
years. 

“Yes. And it makes one feel one’s shirking. 
Edging away from pain instead of . . . 'drinking 
the cup bravely. But I’m not consciously evading 
it.” 

“I’m sure you’re not.” 

“I think it was more perhaps because when she 
died I was too tired—too utterly worn out—to think 
of anything but my own body.” 

“You were splendid,” he was glad to assure her. 
“No one could have been more devoted, more heroic. 
No wonder you were tired after three years. And 
you wrote two books, didn’t you, during that 
time?” 

“Yes. I had to,” she said simply. 

They stood now side by side in silence. Ln the 
trees above them a blackbird’s whistle sounded gaily, 
followed by a swift flutter of wings. 

“I had 'Mass said for her to-day,” said Carina, 
presently. “She seemed to be there. I could hardly 
believe she wasn’t kneeling beside me in the old 
way. She was so good, you know. An dme d 1 elite, 
they called her.” 


CARINA 


13 

Her eyes, heavy and cold with unshed tears, were 
fixed upon the inscription. 

“She never seemed quite to belong to earth,” said 
Richard. 

“Oh, you felt that about her, too? The worst 
moment for me wasn’t when she died, nor even 
afterward. It was when I had to watch her fading 
out of life—just as if she were a flame that was 
being quenched. I couldn’t hold her back. I could 
hardly pray that she might live. She belonged else¬ 
where—that broke my heart. . . 

Even in this recital there was no quiver in her 
voice. 

“You did all and more than you could,” he said 
quietly. 

She shook her head. “It was so little that I— 
or anyone—could do for Mary!” 

She bent her head a little and kissed the Feet of 
the Crucifix that hung above her sister’s grave. Then 
she moved slowly away, and this time Richard walked 
by her side. 

“May I ask what your plans are now, Carina? 
You won’t stay on here, I suppose.” 

“I’m going to London for the present. My aunt, 
Lady Murray, wants me to stay with her for a little. 
And then I must start work again. It’s difficult, 
you know, working for oneself.” 

“I should rest a bit, if I were you, before attempt¬ 
ing it. You’ve been overdoing it all round.” 

He thought of that last book of hers. It had 
lacked the strength and decision he had accustomed 
himself to associate with her work. But, then, 
under what pitiable, heroic circumstances it had been 
written! Watching the quenching of that flame-like 
spirit—the gradual fading out of life of Mary 
Ramsden. . . . Waiting for an inevitable end. 



14 


CARINA 


I couldn’t hold her hack. . . . The words had 

given him a pang of almost physical pain. 

“Don’t you find that if you don’t work you get 
rusty?” inquired Carina. “Some people are afraid 
of getting stale, but I don’t think or that. The more 
I work, the easier it seems.” 

“Yes—I’m with you there. But we all need a real 
rest every now and then. Not too long, but very 
complete.” 

Carina, always a creature of precocious develop¬ 
ment, had published her first novel when she was 
twenty-one. Their means were slender, and she had 
worked early and late at those novels, which had 
followed each other with a celerity that had even 
astonished him—an old experienced hand at the ab¬ 
sorbing game of fiction. He had taught her all that 
can usefully be taught of the technique of her art, 
but he soon perceived that she had little need of 
instruction; she possessed both talent and imagina¬ 
tion, a sense of style and form, a rare gift of char¬ 
acterization. . . . All through Mary’s illness 

she had continued to publish those skilful, brilliant 
books at regular intervals. How she had accom¬ 
plished her work, he could never tell, for she had 
been apparently unremitting in her care of her sister. 
She had spilled her talent royally in Mary’s service. 
To him it had seemed almost tragic—that sustained, 
heroic effort. And it was only in that last book, 
Love among the Ruins, that any sign of fatigue had 
manifested itself. She needed rest now, and leisure 
wherein to absorb new impressions. 

They were walking up the broad unshaded path 
toward the gates of Campo Verano. Above them 
the immense figure of Our Lord, standing upon a 
high pedestal, seemed to keep guard over the dead. 


CARINA 15 

The marble plinth bore those words of eternal hope, 
of everlasting solace: 

EGO SUM RESURRECTIO ET VITA 

They paused for a moment to look at it and then 
passed on. 

“Shall you be leaving soon?” he asked. 

“Yes. The day after to-morrow.” 

“Then I can look after you on the journey. I’m 
starting on Thursday, too,” said Richard, forming 
hasty plans for departure. 

“Thank you,” said Carina, simply. “I’ve been 
rather dreading that long journey alone.” 

They had reached the gates, and turning they 
gazed for a moment upon the broad sunlit path that 
dipped down to the city of the dead. On each side 
of it were twin arcades of tombs, forming a divid¬ 
ing wall, leading to the marble avenues, the Greek 
temples, the ornate mausoleums beyond. Opposite 
to them, in the distance, stood the modern chapel. 
A man, standing near in rough working garb, took 
off his hat, crossed himself, and murmured a prayer. 
Richard Grove followed his example, for no one 
leaves the Campo Santo without saying a prayer for 
the dead who are lying within its walls. Carina 
crossed herself, and her eyes were fixed upon the 
grove of cypress and pine perched upon rising ground 
beyond the little church, where, lost in that vast 
perplexing labyrinth, was the grave of Mary Rams- 
den. 

Her lips moved, and now for the first time that 
day her eyes were bright with tears. She was taking 
leave of Mary. . . . 


CHAPTER II 


**TX 7 ’H 0 ’S that queer-looking old man who sat 
▼ * next to that very pretty girl with the short 
hair at dinner?” 

Lady Murray’s guests had all assembled in her 
charming London drawing-room one warm evening 
in June. She was sitting a little apart, watching them 
as they redistributed themselves after the manner 
of people who find themselves among friends. The 
only two strangers among them were apparently 
continuing the intimate discussion that had occupied 
them during dinner. They were sitting at the far 
end of the double room, where an open window 
gave upon a tiny garden. 

“I mean those two over there,” added Mallory, 
as Lady Murray’s eyes surveyed her guests as if his 
first question had puzzled her. 

“Oh, you mean Richard Grove, the author, who 
was sitting next to my little niece, Caroline—or, as 
we always call her, Carina—Ramsden.” 

Jim Mallory gave another swift glance toward 
the powerful, grizzled head outlined against the grey 
gloom of the garden, where the dusk was beginning 
to fall slowly and as if with reluctance. 

There was something monumental about Grove, 
thought Mallory; something of which he himself 
was probably conscious, since it led him into that 
careless eccentricity of dress, so often observable in 
the extremely wealthy or the extremely successful 
man. 

The monumental power, however, did not attract 
Mallory, whose superficial criticism immediately con¬ 
demned both the carelessness and the eccentricity. 

16 


CARINA 


17 


And it annoyed him, principally because the prettiest 
girl in the room—also a complete stranger to him¬ 
self—had seemed so indifferent to the deficiencies 
of her companion, to whom she was still talking with 
a charming, animated eagerness. 

“I wonder why those writing chaps always try 
to make themselves look so conspicuous,” continued 
Mallory. 

“The younger ones don’t,” said Lady Murray. 
“But Richard Grove is a Victorian survival, and he 
doesn’t think about his clothes. He would be tre¬ 
mendously surprised if anyone told him his dress- 
suit was utterly antiquated. But when a man’s a 
classic in his own lifetime these things don’t really 
matter.” Lady Murray’s charming face broke into 
a smile. 

Richard Grove had most innocently produced an 
irritating effect upon Jim Mallory, and she won¬ 
dered why. 

She was a handsome woman of sixty, the elder by 
ten years of her only brother Alfred Ramsden, who 
died when his two girls were respectively thirteen and 
six years old. Her gray hair was turning white, and 
she had dark eyes that looked mysterious, though 
they were only short-sighted. Much of youth still 
remained in her upright figure, her perfect hands 
and feet. 

“And your little niece—does she know that he’s 
a classic?” inquired Mallory, with the slightest edge 
of satire in his voice. 

“Oh, yes—she writes too, you see. I’ll tell you 
her story another time ... so sad. . 

She’s a wonderful little person. I must introduce 
you to her, Jim.” 

“Yes, please do,” he said. “I want to know her. 
I think she’s charming. Her head might be a de¬ 
tail from an old Florentine picture. A page—not 
a girl.” 


i8 


CARINA 


Lady Murray was very slightly surprised. She 
had not expected such a speech from Jim Mallory, 
and it taught her that his interest in Carina was 
strongly aroused. She rose, and he followed her 
with some alacrity across the room. Grove and Miss 
Ramsden immediately rose from their seats, and 
while the introduction was being effected Richard 
slipped away into another corner of the great room 
and remained there alone and in sphinx-like con¬ 
templation of the little scene. 

“Carina dear, Mr. Mallory,” said Lady Murray. 

Carina? A pretty name, and it suited her. It had 
given Mallory a slight shock to hear that ,she wrote; 
he was old-fashioned enough to be prejudiced against 
women who “did” things, except when it was a 
national necessity that they should, as had unhap¬ 
pily been the case during the War. 

“Lady Murray tells me that you write,” said 
Mallory, sitting down in the chair lately vacated by 
Richard Grove. 

He was a man of about forty, tall, powerfully 
built, with dark eyes and black hair that was grow¬ 
ing grey about the temples. His face had the slightly 
reddened and weather-beaten aspect of one who hab¬ 
itually spends his time in the open-air. Mallory’s 
chief occupations varied according to the season’s 
round of sport. He hunted and shot, and played 
golf and lawn-tennis, pursuing these pleasures with 
an abandonment of zeal. 

“Yes,” said Carina. “At least I have written 
books, and I hope to begin again soon. But Mr. 
Grove wants me to rest. Not too long, you know, 
but just for a time.” 

An odd, incomprehensible sense of jealousy teased 
him. What right had this man, shabby, shaggy, 
unusual, to advise the lovely little creature at his 


CARINA 


19 

side ? Advise, too, with a certain assurance and inti¬ 
macy ? 

“What sort of books do you write?” he inquired, 
clasping his knee, and looking at her with his shrewd 
handsome eyes. 

“Novels,” answered Carina, laconically. 

“I hardly ever read novels,” said Mallory. 

She smiled, and the smile seemed to illuminate her 
face, that just now had been so pale and grave. 

“That’s what everyone says, you know. But people 
do read them, or how should we authors live?” 

He felt the mockery of her smile. 

“I think perhaps women read them more than 
men.” 

“You’ll hardly ever get a woman to acknowledge 
it, then,” said Miss Ramsden. “But I hope for your 
own sake,” she added, “that you’ve read some of 
Richard Grove’s.” 

“No. I don’t think I’d even heard his name until 
to-night. Are they so wonderful?” 

“Yes. He has deserved his great success—one 
can’t say more.” Her strange eyes glowed; she 
glanced across the room at Richard, who still sat 
there alone, inert, contemplative. 

“He’s a friend of yours?” he hazarded. 

“Yes. And of my father’s.” 

Mallory was silent. He had no experience of lit¬ 
erary or artistic people, and his general impression 
of them was that it would be unsafe to entrust them 
with a horse or a gun. It rather astonished him, 
too, to find that Miss Ramsden, a niece of Lady 
Murray’s and a person quite obviously of her world, 
should belong to the great army of authors. He 
spent very little time in London, and lived at Lin- 
fold—his place in Sussex—for at least eleven months 
in the year. His annual visit to London invariably 


20 


CARINA 


synchronized with the great cricket-matches. His 
only son was at Eton now, and this fact gave an 
additional zest that year to the annual outing. Peter 
Mallory was now fourteen years old, an eager, at¬ 
tractive, sport-loving person. Mallory’s wife was 
dead, and the boy was his only child, of whom he 
was inordinately proud. He relt a sudden, irrele¬ 
vant wish that Miss Ramsden should see Peter. 

“You must get Lady Murray to bring you to lunch 
with us at Lord’s on the first day of the Eton and 
Harrow,” he said; “my boy will be there. He’s at 
Eton now.” All the time he was speaking, he felt 
astonished at his own eagerness to invite her, his 
actual fear that she might refuse. 

“I shall be delighted to come if Aunt Nora hasn’t 
any other engagement.” 

“I should like you to see my son,” said Mallory. 

She murmured a commonplace. 

“He’s my only child. My wife has been dead 
nearly six years.” 

As he spoke, Mallory glanced at Carina’s dress. 
It was of that dead black that speaks of bereave¬ 
ment. 

“Oh, I’m so sorry for you,” she said, aroused to 
sudden sympathy and feeling that perhaps she had 
not been hitherto sufficiently attentive. “You see, I 
know what it means to lose some one—someone 
you’re dreadfully fond of. My sister died in Rome 
in the spring. And it’s so hard at first, isn’t it? 
Such a silence.” Her little hands were strained 
tightly together on her lap. 

Mallory had believed himself to be in love with 
his wife when he married her. But when she had 
died, his grief, though sincere, was as passionless 
as his love had by that time become. And then he 
had Peter. Peter belonged to him utterly. He 
could mold him as he wished. Peter’s mother had 


CARINA 


21 


been for some years before her death a highly 
nervous delicate woman, who had lived in perpetual 
fear of calamities and accidents. She had wept to 
see Peter ride forth to the meet with his father. 
Mallory, on the other hand, was determined that 
his son should be a hard fearless rider. His iron 
will had triumphed, and his wife had sickened under 
the strength of it. While he knew that he was hurt¬ 
ing her, he could not or would not desist, from what 
he so clearly felt to be his duty toward his son. He 
took the boy’s upbringing into his own powerful 
and capable hands. And now he was rewarded by 
the continual evidence of Peter’s daring, even reck¬ 
less, spirit. Mallory was almost always a kind in¬ 
dulgent father. There were intervals of necessary 
discipline, of course, but on the whole the.boy adored 
him. Their friendship was deep-rooted in this com¬ 
mon love of sport. 

Iris Mallory had died when her little son was 
about eight years old. 

Mallory talked a good deal about Peter to.Carina 
that evening. He did not again refer to his wife, 
but he had a strong wish to arouse her interest where 
his son was concerned. While. she listened, he 
thought that her face lost something of its look of 
calm suffering. Presently she spoke to him a little 
of Mary. Of the last months of her life, spent under 
the very shadow of the Dome of St. Peter s in Rome. 
She touched a little on her work, and he dimly 
guessed that it had been both hard and necessary. 
This, then, was the sad little story to which Lady 
Murray had referred. 

“Have you always lived abroad?” he asked. 

He was always aghast to find there were actually 
people who voluntarily exiled themselves, from their 
native shores for such paltry and insufficient reasons 
as climate and ill-health. 


22 


CARINA 


“We lived abroad a good deal as children, and 
we were in Italy when the War broke out My sister 
was never well enough to make the journey home 
after that, so we stayed on. Travelling was so dif¬ 
ficult,” she explained simply. “And we were very 
happy there. At least, Mary was happy.” 

Richard Grove had risen now and had moved 
across the room to speak to Lady Murray. 

“Is that Mallory of Linfold who has been talking 
to Carina for so long?” he inquired. 

“Yes. Do you know him, Richard?” 

“No. I’ve only heard of him, from friends of 
his wife’s.” 

“Oh, I hardly knew poor Iris,” said Lady Mur¬ 
ray. “They weren’t very well suited, were they? 
I seem to remember something. But I’ve always 
been fond of Jim.” It was as if she wished by her 
very loquacity to stop Grove from saying anything 
to Jim’s detriment. 

“No—they, were not well suited,” he remarked. 
“How charming Carina looks to-night!” he added 
irrelevantly. 

“Yes, doesn’t she? Dear child!” 

“She wants rest and fresh air and good food,” 
continued Grove; “she’s thoroughly exhausted. And 
no wonder.” He let his eyes rest upon Carina with 
an almost fatherly solicitude. 

“I’m doing all I can,” said Lady Murray, “and 
she looks much better than she did when she first 
came.” 

“Don’t let her work, don’t let her work,” he said 
impatiently. “That last book—it showed a falling 
off, a fatigue. Her best is so good, she must never 
be allowed to fall below her own standard.” 

“You must tell her so, Richard. She listens to you. 
I’m only a fussy old woman.” She laughed. 

“I wish Alfred could see her now. Looking just 


CARINA 


23 


as she does to-night. He’d be proud of her and of 
her achievement. Wonderful child!” 

He gripped Lady Murray’s hand and slipped away 
without further farewell. 

“Something’s upset him,” Lady Murray thought. 
“I wonder what it was. I don’t think he cares for 
Mallory—perhaps he’s heard something against 
him, as he says he doesn’t know him.” 

She crossed the room and joined her niece and 
Mallory by the window. 

The blue dusk filled the garden. A white moth 
fluttered past. Overhead the faint London stars 

pricked the sky. .... 

Mallory sprang up and repeated his invitation. 

“Oh, I’m sure we shall be delighted to come. 
You’ve never seen an Eton and Harrow match, have 
you, Carina? You’d like it, wouldn t you? 

“Yes, very much. It will be a new experience for 
me,” said Miss Ramsden. “Almost everything in 
London is new to me,” she explained, turning to 

Mallory. . 

Before he parted from her that evening, Mallory 
had permitted the thought of marrying her to take 
definite shape in his mind. He had never before 
been so swiftly attracted to any woman. He must 
learn more of her from Lady Murray. For the 
second time in his life he told himself that he had 
fallen in love. That unusual beauty of hers en¬ 
chanted him. 

But first she must see Peter. * * « 


CHAPTER III 


••IV/f Y DEAR Carina, you’ve made quite a con- 
'*■*■*■ quest of Jim Mallory!” Lady Murray’s 
comfortable pleasant voice was not untouched by 
irony. Of course there couldn’t really be anything 
in it. Mallory had merely succumbed momentarily 
to the fascination Carina so carelessly and even un¬ 
consciously exercised. He was at least fifteen years 
older than she was; he had already a tall young son 
at Eton. It was commonly held, too, that he had 
not undertaken a second matrimonial venture on 
account of Peter. He was wrapped up in his son. 
Besides, his life and Carina’s were utterly dissimilar. 
She was without experience of English life in any 
of its settled forms, and it was scarcely possible that 
the prospect of spending her days in an English 
country house, however opulent, would have any at¬ 
traction for her. 

Lady Murray would have been glad to see her 
niece settled, established, adequately provided for. 
She had little to leave her, for her own income, 
though large, was chiefly settled upon her husband’s 
family, or consisted of a pension that died with her. 
Mallory was a rich man; his property at Linfold 
was a large one. But, then, Carina was a Catholic, 
which was in itself such an obstacle. Alfred Rams- 
den had in the last decade of his life become a con¬ 
vert to the Church, and had made provision for his 
two little daughters to be brought up in the Faith. 

Carina smiled. “You know, that’s just the sort 
of thing Mary used to say!” 

“Well, my dear, you might do much worse. He’s 

24 


CARINA 2 5 

a rich man, and Linfold’s a most enviable, delightful 
house.” 

“It’s so dear and old-fashioned of you, Aunt 
Nora, to build matrimonial castles on such slight 
provocation.” Carina did not permit the thought 
of Mallory’s possible subjugation to disturb hen She 
had refused several excellent offers of marriage in 
the past; her reason for not accepting them had 
•always been the same—her inability to leave her 
sister. It occurred to her now with a pang, that 
she could never again adduce that particular one. 

“But you must marry, one of these days,” said 
Lady Murray. 

“I don’t think, though, it’ll be Mr. Mallory.” 

“He was so very anxious we should join his 
luncheon-party at Lord’s. Did he talk to you about 
his son?” 

“Yes. A good deal,” said Carina. “What sort 
of a boy is he?” 

“Oh, quite a dear. Between ourselves, I think 
Jim’s a trifle too strict with him. Still, they’re de¬ 
voted to each other.” 

Carina was silent. This morning she did not feel 
wildly interested in Jim Mallory and his concerns. 
She felt an irresistible longing to get to work again, 
but unfortunately she had promised Richard to do 
nothing for at least a couple of months. 

“It won’t do you any harm to observe the London 
pageant for a little while,” he had told her dryly 

last night. . 

But unlike Lady Murray, he was not in the least 
anxious that Carina should marry. If love came 
to her, well and good; but that she should marry 
for an establishment, would have seemed to him a 
preposterous solution of the girl s future. 

“Did you like him?” inquired Lady Murray, 
breaking in upon Carina’s thoughts. 


2 6 


CARINA 


“Like whom, dear Aunt Nora? Oh, Mr. Mall¬ 
ory! No—not very much. Imagine—he had never 
even heard of Richard Grove! I’m afraid Linfold 
must be one of those benighted places where they 
only read Surtees!” 

Lady Murray said rather dejectedly: “I don’t 
suppose Jim ever reads anything except the Times 
and Field. He’s a very busy man.” 

Carina’s attitude was unsatisfactory, yet last night 
she had spent an hour talking to Mallory in what 
might really be termed a quite engrossed manner. 
It had even disturbed Richard Grove a little—he 
took such a fatherly interest in Carina. She wondered 
idly what reason Grove had for disliking Mallory, 
who as a rule was both liked and respected by other 
men. Of course it was well-known that his marriage 
hadn’t been a happy one. Probably, thought Lady 
Murray, it was the fault of his wife. One of those 
fretful nervous little creatures, without an ounce of 
stamina or resistance. . . . 

The day of the Eton and Harrow dawned so 
divinely fair with promise of great heat, that Lady 
Murray induced her niece to wear a white frock. 
Carina was reluctant to put off her deep mourning; 
on the other hand, she was too fond of her aunt 
not to comply with the suggestion. She suspected 
no ulterior reason, least of all one that should concern 
Mallory. Lady Murray knew, however, by experi¬ 
ence that Carina looked her loveliest in white, and 
it was thus she wanted Jim to see her. Mallory 
had not been near them during the past fortnight; 
he had merely left a card after the dinner-party, 'and 
a little note reminding them of their engagement. 
But Lady (Murray felt that the day might prove a 
momentous one for her niece, and she wished to 
follow up and crystallize that brief success of the 
dinner-party. 


CARINA 


27 


When they reached the club tent where Mallory’s 
table was situated, they were greeted by a slender 
stripling with smooth black hair, brushed till it was 
sleek and shiny, a pair of dark blue eyes, and a small 
sun-browned face. Carina thought he was the most 
beautiful boy she had ever seen. 

She did not realize that this was Mallory’s son, 
until she heard Lady Murray say: “Well, Peter, is 
your father here? This is my niece, Miss Ramsden.” 

Carina held out her hand, and Peter took it rather 
ungraciously. He remembered his father’s careless 
injunction to him that morning: “By the way, Lady 
Murray’s bringing her niece, Miss Ramsden, to 
lunch. I want you to be very nice to her—she’s just 
lost her only sister.” 

Peter had felt a cold shiver pass down his spine 
at the words. For years he had dreaded the advent 
of a stepmother. He had always believed that one 
day his father would marry again, and from gossip 
he had heard in the neighborhood of Linfold, he 
knew that his name had already been associated with 
that of more than one lady who aspired secretly to 
the honor of becoming the second Mrs. Mallory. 

But Peter had known his father’s private opinion 
of most of those aspirants, and therefore had not 
feared them. This Miss Ramsden, however, was 
an unknown quantity. Her very name was new to 
him. When he held out his hand to Carina, he said 
in a cold tone: “My father will be here in a minute. 

There was an uncomfortable pause, but Carina 
was serenely unconscious of any tension; she only 
thought Peter’s manner off-hand and wanting in 
courtesy. Probably his father indulged him. 

Still he was a wonderful-looking creature. He scarce¬ 
ly resembled Mallory at all, though the color of his 
hair was more or less the same. The features were 
far more finely molded, and gave the impression 


CARINA 


28 

of strength without brutality. There was a hint of 
brutality about Mallory’s mouth and jaw. . . 

Carina began to speculate mentally about the per¬ 
sonality of the late Mrs. Mallory. She wondered 
whether Peter had inherited his rather vivid and 
arresting beauty from her. 

Mallory came into the tent, hearty and a little 
exuberant. He greeted both ladies warmly and 
eagerly, and then he glanced at Peter, who stood 
there aloof and silent. 

“Where are your friends, Peter?” he asked. 

“They’re just coming, Dad,” Peter roused himself 
to say. 

Half a dozen Eton boys shortly afterward joined 
them, accompanied for the most part by their mothers 
and sisters. The table was thronged with laughing 
and chattering young people, who made Carina feel 
a trifle old. They were so young, so intensely happy 
and interested; their laughter and gaity were things 
to be remembered. Not one of them displayed the 
slightest constraint or shyness. 

Mallory looked older by daylight. The grey hairs 
in his thick black crop were more visibly abundant, 
and there was a fine network of lines about his eyes. 
Still he was very good-looking, and his spare, up¬ 
right, and strong figure still possessed much of the 
suppleness of youth. There was something almost 
romantic, Carina thought, in his good-looks. He 
was an admirable host, easy, attentive, agreeable. 

Every now and then he glanced down the long 
table to where his son was sitting, cold, silent, taking 
little or no part in the conversation, and never join¬ 
ing in that gay laughter. What was the matter with 
him? Mallory felt a strange annoyance with him, 
but he concealed it carefully. He would give Peter 
a word of reprimand another time. Mallory guessed 
the reason, of course—it was the presence of Carina 


CARINA 


29 


Ramsden that had upset him. Some quick jealous 
intuition must have warned him of his father’s ad¬ 
miration for her. The sullen hostility deepened on 
Peter’s face as the meal proceeded. Mallory had 
never before felt so furiously angry with him. He 
was aware of a threatened conflict of wills. Well, 
of course, if it came to that . . .. His hard, 

handsome mouth was twisted into a grim smde. 

Every time he looked at or spoke to Carina, he 
felt Peter’s sick, jealous eyes watching him. He 
hoped that Lady Murray and Miss Ramsden had 
noticed nothing. 

When luncheon was over, he had a word with 
Peter. 

“Do you want me to send you home?’’ 

Mallory was living in a furnished house in Bryans- 
ton Square, a huge gloomy barrack he had rented 
for a few weeks. He had no town house of his own. 

“Why—what do you mean, Dad?” Peter’s voice 

trembled a little. 

“Just what I say. If you can’t behave, you can 
just jolly well clear out and go home.” 

Peter flushed up to the roots of his hair, and made 
no reply. The other members of the party had walked 
on, across the smooth, level, green sward. The father 
and son were alone. Peter could never remember 
that his father had spoken to him in this way before. 
Mallory had a fierce expression in his eyes, that 

alarmed him. . ... 

“You will be civil to my guests another time, it 

you please,” continued Mallory. He walked on 
abruptly and joined Lady Murray and Carina. Peter 
followed more slowly. His pleasure in the day was 
completely dead. He felt no interest in the match, 
he wished the whole hateful thing would come to an 

end as speedily as possible. 

He watched his father. He was completely oc- 








30 


CARINA 


cupied with Miss Ramsden. Carina, aware of suc¬ 
cess, responded to his eager attention. Perhaps like 
most women she enjoyed this sense of speedy con¬ 
quest, although she had not the least intention of 
letting it go any further. Mallory was far too old. 
Why, it would be absurd to foist that big sulky school¬ 
boy upon her as a stepson. She was beginning to 
feel Peter’s hostility, and she was far too sensitive 
not to divine its reason. 

Carina always looked her prettiest when she talked 
and laughed with animation. And the whole gay 
scene delighted her—the color, the bright sunshine, 
the level green turf, the light summer frocks of the 
women and children, the throngs of young people 
enjoying their exciting holiday. Lady Murray glanced 
once or twice at her niece approvingly. Ordinarily 
her face, although almost perfectly drawn, was too 
grave and pale to elicit admiration. But to-day she 
was looking her best, and her best was, as Lady 
Murray complacently observed, very good indeed. 
Peter, glancing at her from beneath half-closed eye¬ 
lids, grudgingly admitted the beauty, nor could he 
be blind to the effect it was producing upon his father. 
Mallory was so happy, now his brief outburst of 
anger was over, that he looked almost like a boy. 
Peter felt the cold hand of fate laid chillingly upon 
his heart. He had a terrible conviction that this time 
it was “all up” with his father. Marriage between 
him and Miss Ramsden was surely a pre-ordained, 
inevitable thing. And Peter felt that a woman like 
Carina, young, lovely, intelligent, must surely hold 
his father in the hollow of her hand. He would be 
so afraid of losing her love, her good opinion. He 
would never dare show himself in one of his rages 
to her! . . . Peter grew pale, and a sombre 

look of defeat came into his young unhappy eyes. 

Mallory, an old member of the Marylebone 


CARINA 


3 i 


Cricket Club, had reserved seats for his friends. 
To-day he was, for the first time in Peter’s remem¬ 
brance, entirely indifferent to the cricket. Generally 
they had sat side by side watching every over with 
the most breathless attention, for cricket was a real, 
absorbing joy to them both. But now he strolled 
about half the afternoon with Carina Ramsden, who 
was avowedly far more interested in the people than 
in the game. He was in love—absorbed—perhaps 
a little timorous. He left Peter with Lady Murray, 
who had good reasons for not opposing the arrange¬ 
ment. 

Carina was following up her success. Everything 
was progressing perfectly. Mallory was so charming 
—surely he must produce a good impression. She 
would even learn to forgive him for never having 
heard of Richard Grove! . . . 

Peter broke a long and miserable silence by saying 
to Lady Murray: “I suppose he means to marry 
her. She’s only a girl—years too young. She might 
be his daughter—in that short dress!” The words 
escaped from him as if he were unable to repress 
them. 

Lady Murray was astonished and secretly annoyed 
at this precocious perspicacity. Really, there were 
no children left in these days! She beheld in Peter 
a possible element of defeat. It was a pity he pos¬ 
sessed such discernment. 

“Aren’t you looking ahead rather too fast? This 
is only the second time he’s seen her,” she announced 

dryly. . , 

“Perhaps she won’t have him. ... Is she 

badly off?” 

“No. She earns a good deal. She writes, you 
11 “Writes?” he repeated incredulously. Carina in 


32 


CARINA 


her fresh, crisp white garb did not suggest Grub 
Street. 

“Novels,” added Lady Murray. She had felt 
afraid that the thought of the novels might have the 
effect of “putting Mallory off.” 

“Dad hates novels,” said Peter, brightening a 
little. 

“He need never read them,” said Lady Murray, 
wondering why she encouraged him to pursue the 
conversation. 

“He won’t let her write them if he marries her,” 
said Peter. 

“My dear child, he’s not thinking of marrying 
her,” said Lady Murray crushingly. “Besides, she’s 
at least fifteen years younger than he is, and very 
independent. . . 

“He may make her fall in love with him,” said 
Peter gloomily. 

He had a sort of hero-worship for his father, 
and believed him to be irresistible. When he chose, 
Mallory could fascinate people. Peter had himself 
felt that fascination. Even to-day when he had 
spoken those angry severe words, a little thrill of 
mingled admiration and fear had passed through 
him. 

“If she marries Dad, she won’t have to work,” 
he said presently. “I daresay she’ll think of that. 
But you’re her aunt,”—he looked wistfully at Lady 
Murray—“you might stop it, mightn’t you? Her 
marrying him, I mean. Couldn’t you?” 

“Please don’t talk nonsense, Peter. Your father 
would be very angry if he knew!” 

“He’s angry already,” said Peter. He looked 
miserable, almost as if he were going to cry. Lady 
Murray felt a certain compassion for the self-tor¬ 
mented youth. 


CARINA 


33 


They watched the cricket in silence. Presently 

Peter rose from his seat. 

“It’s awfully hot here, isn’t it?” he said. “Shall 
you mind if I leave you alone? Dad’s sure to be 
back soon—he can’t fool around all the afternoon, 
can he ? And I simply can’t stick it any longer! Pm 
going home!” 

“Won’t your father mind?” suggested Lady Mur¬ 
ray, feeling somehow that the boy was storing up 

trouble for himself. # 

“I don’t care if he does! Pm going. You can 
say what you like to him, Lady Murray. 

Good-bye—” 

He grasped her hand, and then made his way out 
of the enclosure, the angry resentful tears standing 
in his eyes. As he passed rapidly toward the gate, 
he saw his father and Carina in the distance, stand¬ 
ing apart from the crowd. They were not thinking 
about the match at all. They were talking, and she 
was looking up into his face and laughing,. her little 
head tilted back, and her bright hair showing under 


her hat. . . 

Peter felt almost faint with jealous emotion. Un, 

ves, his father was in love with her right enough. 
He had guessed it the moment he had heard him 
utter her name for the first time. There was some¬ 
thing in his manner of saying it that had aroused 
the boy’s attention. And now that he had seen het 
for himself, and seen too how beautiful she was, he 
felt that there was no room for hope. Mallory wasnt 
flirting, as Peter had often seen him flirt with quite 
young girls. He was serious, and on his guard, re¬ 
sentful already of interference. , 

Peter boarded a passing motor-bus and went home 
The Eton and Harrow was a rotten show; he couldn 
imagine why he had ever looked forward to it. He 
never wanted to see another cricket match. . • • 


CHAPTER IV 


TVTALLORY’S anger when he discovered that 
Peter had departed, leaving Lady Murray 
alone, was concealed but none the less formidable. 
Anyone who knew him better than Carina did, would 
have readily interpreted the significance of the dark¬ 
ening eyes, the compression of the hard lips. It 
was only her presence that rendered him capable of 
preserving an outward calm. Peter should suffer 
for this. . . . He wasn’t going to be watched 

and censored and flouted by his own son. In his 
triumph he felt a little cruel. He wasn’t going to 
have his happiness spoilt! It was true that he hadn’t 
yet asked Carina to marry him—that would have 
been to ruin prematurely a most hopeful and pro¬ 
mising situation—but he had fully made up his mind 
to invite her to be his wife. 

Carina would have been exceedingly and disagree¬ 
ably astonished if she had known what was passing 
in Jim Mallory’s mind. He was a pleasant ac¬ 
quaintance, and she liked him well enough; his good 
looks were attractive to her, his mentality much less 
so. it questioned, she would have admitted that she 
- ar preferred to spend an afternoon in Grove’s com¬ 
pany than in Mallory’s. 

Jim motored Lady Murray and Carina back to 
bouth Kensington, and then went home to Bryanston 
Square. Peter was not in any of the sitting-rooms. 
Mallory felt for the first time a little anxious. But 
his anxiety increased his anger, which there was now 
no further reason to conceal, and it was a very for- 


34 


CARINA 35 


midable looking person that presently marched into 
the boy’s bedroom. 

Jim’s eyes darkened with fury when he saw Peter 
lying on the bed, his face swollen and disfigured 
with weeping. Was he going to become weakly 
hysterical, like his mother? Mallory resolved to 
put down any disposition of the sort with a strong 
hand. 

“What’s the matter with you, you young fool?” 


said Mallory. 

A sob was the only answer. Peter, worn out with 
emotion, was now thoroughly exhausted. He was 
conscious only of a dreadful, rising fear of his father. 
Their eyes met, and the boy shrank from the con¬ 
templation of Mallory’s powerful even formidable 
physique; the iron arms, the wide shoulders, the piti¬ 
less strength ... 

“Why did you leave Lady Murray alone like that? 

It was very rude of you.” # 

“I ... I couldn’t bear it any longer, said 

Peter. 

“What couldn’t you bear, you young ass?” Mall¬ 
ory’s tone was impatient, exasperated. 

“Seeing you . • • with M^iss Ramsden, said 

Peter. 

A dull angry red came into Jim .Mallory s face.^ 
“How dare you speak to me like that? No—don’t 
move —I haven’t nearly done with you! Stay where 
you are till I come back.’’ He could hardly articu¬ 
late for rage. 

When he had gone out of the room Peter rose 
trembling from the bed. Pie was afraid of his 
father’s violence. His temper was thoroughly aroused, 
and it was years since Peter had seen him really, 
violently angry. He waited for his father s return 
in an agony of suspense. He was not a coward, but 
there was something in Mallory’s manner of utter- 


CARINA 


36 

ing those last menacing words that would have struck 
terror into the heart of the most courageous boy. 

It didn’t, couldn’t, mean that he meant to flog 
him. . . . 

Jim Mallory came back into the room, carrying 
a hunting-crop in his hand. His blood was up, and 
he had lost control over himself. He wasn’t going 
to be opposed and criticized by a child. He meant 
to give Peter a lesson he would never forget. 

He seized him with an iron grip and flung him 
back violently upon the bed. Peter was powerless 
to resist. For years his father had not flogged him, 
and the shame and humiliation were as great as if 
he were experiencing it for the first time. But soon 
even shame was swallowed up in the physical tor¬ 
ment. He bit back the cry that rose to his lips, and 
set himself to the grim task of enduring the pain of 
those measured, merciless blows. Mallory was quite 
beside himself, and Peter realized that in his rage 
he hardly knew what he was doing. If this went 
on he might kill him. . . . At last the boy gave 

a horrible cry— a cry of despair. It brought Mallory 
tardily to his senses. He flung the whip on the floor 
and went out of the room, slamming the door after 
him. He hadn’t meant to punish the boy like that. 
All at once Peter’s offence seemed small and trivial. 
His conscience smote him. Through the door he 
could hear the boy’s faint moaning, his half-stifled 
sobs. 

It was horrible. No woman was worth it. . . . 

They had arranged to dine with some of Peter’s 
friends at a restaurant that night, and Mallory’s 
first action was to telephone and express his sorrow 
that they would not, after all, be able to go. He 
had to face a solitary dinner, and his misery at this 
termination of what should have been such a happy 
day was now hardly less than Peter’s. He wished 


CARINA 


37 


he had not punished him like that. He forgot his 
own strength, he had been almost mad with rage. 
Looking back, he felt that he had been even more 
to blame than Peter. For, after all, it was only the 
boy’s love for him that had prompted him to give 
way to that passion of jealousy. It had been 
perhaps more the moment for kindness than for 
severity. . . . And yet there had been some¬ 

thing subtle and morbid too about Peter’s offence. 
All the petty crimes for which Jim had punished 
him in the past had consisted of acts of disobedience 
and defiance, a petty falsehood, a rude answer. But 
to-day Peter had divined with extraordinary intui¬ 
tion his father’s intention with regard to Carina 
Ramsden, and he had pitted his puny force against 
it. It was this mute antagonism, this suggested dis¬ 
approval, that had so enraged Mallory. Yes, Peter 
had deserved a taste of discipline for his precocious 
interference. Mallory tried to make excuses for 
himself, knowing all the time that he had beaten 
his son quite savagely, and that there had been an 
element of revenge in the sharp rapid retribution 
he had so pitilessly exacted. It had been quite nec¬ 
essary, however, to teach Peter that his attitude 
couldn’t be tolerated, for Mallory was aware that it 
might even ultimately imperil his own chance of suc¬ 
cess, should Carina chance to discern the boy’s an¬ 
tagonism. 

Mallory knew enough of adolescent psychology 
to realize that Peter had suffered a great deal during 
those unfortunate hours at Lord’s. Nothing else 
could have accounted for his abrupt, discourteous 
departure. He had shown the red flag of rebellion 
unmistakably to Lady Murray, who would be hardly 
likely to conceal the fact from her niece. It was 
horrible to think that Peter had it in his power to 
frustrate his own happiness in this way, and Mall- 



CARINA 


3» 

ory felt his wrath beginning to rise again at the 
thought. If he chose to marry again, Peter must learn 
to treat his stepmother with courtesy and regard 
her with affection. He really couldn’t put up with 
this jealous hysteria. It was something that must 
be severely checked. . . . Peter had richly de¬ 

served his flogging. And he would be never likely 
to forget it. It would certainly have the salutary 
effect of making him careful. And yet, with the 
remembrance of that despairing, horrible cry sound¬ 
ing in his ears, Mallory wished he had approached 
the matter more judiciously and in a more suave 
temper. 

He was scarcely less miserable than Peter, that 
night. He longed, as the evening hours wore on, 
to go up to his son’s room, and comfort him. If 
Peter had had a mother, that was no doubt what she 
would have done. How Iris had trembled and 
sickened on those rare occasions in her lifetime when 
he had gone upstairs at Linfold to punish Peter! It 
had been part of the tragedy of her life that she 
could not protect her little son from his father’s 
severity. Yes, he would have gone up to see Peter 
now, but he dreaded to seem too soft. To-morrow 
would be time enough for forgiveness. 

The incident made him envisage the possibility of 
his second marriage in its immediate effect upon 
Peter. It would assuredly mean a great change in 
their mutual relations. It would lead not perhaps 
to actual estrangement, for he couldn’t permit such 
a thing as that to happen, but at least to a diminu¬ 
tion of confidence and intimacy. Peter would no 
longer hold the first, the only place. Perhaps the 
episodes of that day had already initiated that future 
change, that readjustment of relations that must in¬ 
evitably, he thought, occur. He had flogged Peter 
grievously because of Carina, and because he had 


CARINA 


39 


feared the boy’s power to frustrate his own happi¬ 
ness and triumph. But whenever he considered it, 
as his anger slowly subsided, he regarded his recent 
action with horror, as a thing even of wanton 
cruelty. Perhaps Peter would never forgive him. 
Perhaps the remembrance would make him regard 
Carina always with a fierce enmity for having been 
the primary cause of his discomfiture. Mallory was 
a little aghast to find himself so utterly in the wrong. 
Conscience arraigned him, and he was far too honest 
a man not to look at the facts quite squarely. And 
he feared the consequences, principally because of 
their effect upon Peter. He loved his son, and he 
did not wish anything in the world to interfere with 
their happy relations. Peter was his first-born, his 
heir. Nothing could change that. Peter would, he 
felt, always seem more peculiarly his, than any 
children that might yet be born to him. His very 
birthright gave him a distinctive position of which 
nothing could deprive him. He began to feel as if 
that day he had failed in his duty toward his son. 

He sat up very late in his study, a prey to gloomy 
imaginings. The stir of traffic echoing through 
the open windows was becoming less, and it seemed 
to him that with its diminution the whole great city 
was preparing for slumber. Would there be no sleep 
for himself and Peter that night? Jim felt as if all 
the rosy hopes that had been his earlier in the day 
had been abruptly quenched. He could hardly think 
of Carina with any pleasure now. The very thought 
of her had a strangely disturbing effect, as jf she 
might ultimately mar the perfect serenity of his life. 

A clock in the hall struck two with deep rever¬ 
berating note. The household had long since gone 
to bed. Mallory tried to curb the demon of unrest 
that had taken possession of his soul. He was aware 
of a conflict in which his new-born love for Carina 


40 


CARINA 


and his long love for Peter were strangely at war. 
It seemed impossible to reconcile the two. 

He heard a slight stir in the hall; someone touched 
the door-handle, timidly uncertainly. Mallory sprang 
up. “Who’s there?” he shouted sternly. “What 
are you doing there?” For the moment he actually 
believed that thieves had broken into his house. 

He flung open the door. Peter was standing in 
front of him, looking very slender and boyish in his 
suit of blue pajamas. His black hair was ruffled 
and damp about his brow. His face was flushed 
and the blue eyes were still swollen and disfigured 
with tears. Mallory took his hand—it was burning 
hot and feverish. A pang of remorse pierced his 
heart, but his next emotion was one of intense relief. 
Peter had come to him, of his own accord. 

He drew him into the room and closed the door. 
Then he went back to his great armchair and sitting 
down held out his arms to Peter. The boy came 
limply, submissively, up to him, and suffered himself 
to be enfolded in that embrace. He thought at that 
moment that he could never again feel afraid of his 
father, of his strength, his powerful arms. Like 
a little child he leaned his head against his father’s 
breast, and clinging to him broke once more into 
passionate weeping. 

Mallory held him closely and tenderly till the fit 
of weeping should pass. Repeatedly he bent his 
head and touched Peter’s hair with his lips. He 
did not speak, but the sense of protection, of ulti¬ 
mate forgiveness, comforted the boy more than any 
words could have done. 

Peter fell asleep in his father’s arms, and for a 
long time Mallory continued to hold him thus, afraid 
to stir for fear of disturbing him. All traffic had 
ceased outside, and there was a film of faint, impal¬ 
pable light in the eastern sky. Soon it would be day. 


CARINA 


4i 


Mallory rose at last and carried Peter up to his 
own room, laying him on a couch at the foot of his 
bed. He covered him with a blanket, and then 
looked down with a passion of pride upon the slen¬ 
der sleeping form. It was with difficulty that he 
could cease to watch him thus, and go to bed him¬ 
self. 

He wished he had not said anything about her 
coming down to Linfold in the summer to Carina 
Ramsden. He wished he had not accepted Lady 
Murray’s invitation to dine there on the following 
Sunday. Perhaps even now it wasn’t too late. 
Surely, with a little determination he could resolve 
never to see Carina again. He even began to doubt 
the reality of his love for her. A girl he had only 
seen twice ! A girl, too, of calmly independent views, 
who had been “on her own’’ for some years, and 
who had supported her sister and herself by writing 
novels. Iris had come straight from her father’s 
house to his, never having tasted the sweets of inde¬ 
pendence. It was surely better and safer for a man 
to marry a girl of that type, whose every action had 
been watched over by solicitous and careful parents. 
You knew where you were, then. And yet, thinking 
of those sweet hours he had spent with Carina that 
day, he was obliged to confess that her very inde¬ 
pendence, her freedom, had had their charm for him. 
She was wise and experienced and had something of 
the outlook of a much older woman. 

He bent down and looked closely at his son. Peter 
was very, very dear to him. Dearer surely than this 
slip of a girl whom he had only seen twice. For 
Peter’s sake had he not better determine never to 
see her, voluntarily, again? . . . 


CHAPTER V 


DO hope Jim wasn’t too severe with Peter 

A for his escapade yesterday,” said Lady Mur¬ 
ray, as she walked in the Park on the following 
morning, accompanied by Carina and a couple of 
highly-pampered Pekinese. “He’s capable of being 
hard, I believe,” she added. 

“Well, Peter was rather savage, wasn’t he?” said 
Carina carelessly. 

In a sense, the boy’s ill-concealed antagonism had 
rather amused her than otherwise. She knew, how¬ 
ever, nothing of his conversation with her aunt before 
leaving her alone in the enclosure. Lady Murray 
had considered it more prudent not to mention that 
part of it. 

Carina reflected that it wouldn’t, however, be amus¬ 
ing to encounter much of that kind of antagonism 
in one’s daily life. Of course, she had not the slight¬ 
est intention of marrying Jim Mallory; he seemed 
so very much her senior, and, besides, he was a 
Protestant and probably had only a very slight knowl¬ 
edge of Catholicism and all that it entailed. She 
was also as yet far from certain that he was se¬ 
riously considering the project of marrying her. Still, 
there had been something in his manner yesterday 
that had spelt danger. 

“I suppose he was. He’s very devoted to his 
father, and he may have felt jealous.” 

“Jealous?” Carina pretended not to understand. 

“Of you, my dear,” said Lady Murray dryly. 

Carina flushed. “How absurd!” 

“I think you must be prepared to receive an offer 
of marriage from Mr. Mallory,” pursued Lady Mur- 

42 


CARINA 


43 


ray, who had her own reasons for desiring to ascer¬ 
tain her niece’s views on the subject. 

“If I thought there was any truth in that, I should 
go back to Rome to-morrow,” said Carina decisively. 
“I don’t want to make a marriage like that in any 
case. It would be too conventional. Just a niche 
ready to step into.* And, as you say, he’s capable 
of being hard—if one didn’t keep inside the niche!” 

“Did you tell him you were a Catholic?” inquired 
her aunt. 

“No. I didn’t see any necessity. If he wants to 
know anything more about me, he can ask you, dear 
Aunt Nora. And I should like him to read one of 
my books—that last one, Love among the Ruins” 

“It would indeed be a proof of his sincerity and 
devotion if Jim Mallory were to read a novel!” 
observed Lady Murray, who could not help feeling 
that Carina was purposely not being quite frank 
with her. “Unless, of course, it were a sporting 
one,” she added. 

“What was his wife like?” asked Carina. 

“Oh, a very pretty charming woman. At least, 
she was when they were first married. But she be¬ 
came very delicate and nervous after Peter’s birth. 
That must have been a great trial to Jim. She had 
to live a very quiet life at Linfold; she couldn’t 
entertain at all. Miss Mallory—his sister—went 
to live there for a bit to look after things, but I 
don’t think that answered very well either.” 

Carina’s face was slightly ironical. 

“And does Miss Mallory still live there and look 
after things?” she asked. 

“No. You see, she doesn’t hit it off with Peter. 
She interfered too much—it wasn’t a success. Jim 
bought a little house for her about five miles away.” 

Carina thought calmly: “Mr. Mallory andj have 
a great deal to learn about each other still.” 


44 


CARINA 


Something warned her that Lady Murray was 
right, and that if she really wished the matter to go 
no further, her best plan would be not to meet Mall¬ 
ory again. When with him she had felt herself in 
the presence of some dominating power that made 
her conscious of weakness and hesitancy. Mallory 
had produced an unsettling, disturbing effect upon her, 
even on the first night of their meeting, but more 
especially yesterday when she had spent such a long 
time in his company. She had resented the fact, but 
there it was; she could not get away from it. And 
no man had ever produced that impression upon her 
before. Already she felt that it wouldn’t be so easy 
to go away and treat Jim as if he didn’t exist. She 
was angry with herself when she made this discovery. 
She was angry with Jim too. . . . She almost 

made her mind then not to go to Linfold in the 
summer .... to make some excuse. She would 
induce her aunt to take her abroad. 

Her life had been so utterly different from his. 
She was aware, too, that her own experience had 
been probably harsher than that of most of the 
women who constituted Mallory’s restricted little 
world. She had had to struggle not only for herself 
but for another person. And she felt that the strug¬ 
gle had left its ugly clawing marks upon her. She 
had fought poverty single-handed, and she had tri¬ 
umphed and had even won success in the process. 
But it had taken something of the freshness of youth 
from her. She looked more than her twenty-five 
years. She knew that she had all the assurance of 
the woman who has had to manage her own life and 
make decisions for herself. And it was possible 
that few married women of her age had enjoyed 
such complete independence, such freedom from 
control as had been hers. It had made her hard, 
a little fearless; in a sense it had disillusioned her. 


CARINA 


45 


These qualities would, she felt, scarcely be likely 
to appeal to Mallory in the long run. Perhaps he 
was too old-fashioned to appreciate them. If she 
married at all, it would be safer to marry a younger 
man, who in his first youth had lived through the 
storm and stress to which the present generation had 
been subjected. In many ways she felt that her out¬ 
look would probably approach more nearly to Peter’s 
than to his father’s. And then she thought of Mall¬ 
ory’s wife, the nervous delicate woman who had been 
Peter’s mother. She wondered if the dead woman 
had loved her husband. There was something at¬ 
tractive about Mallory, even setting aside his obvi¬ 
ous good-looks. His devotion to his son touched her. 
And then her thoughts turned to Peter. She had not 
been unaware of his passionate antagonism, born of 
love and jealousy. Perhaps it would be an element 
that she would never be able to conquer. . 

She started. . . . Her secret thoughts were 

leading her back to the actual possibility of marriage 
with Jim Mallory. The trend of her meditation 
almost alarmed her. For, of course, she had pot 
the slightest intention of marrying him. . A^ rich, 
sporting squire who lived on his property in Sussex 
for eleven months in the year! There was little to 
attract her in such a life as that. She pictured going 
to Richard Grove with the announcement on her 
lips. . . . Mentally she contrasted the two men. 

And she wondered, not what Mallory would think of 
Grove, but what Grove would think of Mall¬ 
ory. ... 

Richard, she believed, only regarded her in the 
light of her talent, a point of view that would 
probably hardly occur to Mallory. Richard had 
tried to guard that talent, to cherish it, to watch 
its development with a kind of stern tenderness. He 
had been afraid that she would debase it in that past 


46 


CARINA 


struggle. He knew how strong the incentive had 
been to work too hard and too rapidly, in order to 
heap those little luxuries upon Mary, to try to fan 
that flickering flame to renewed life. But he would 
not have hesitated to blame her, even so, if she had 
ever wilfully fallen short of the high accomplish¬ 
ment of her first books. He had never quite forgiven 
her for writing Love among the Ruins. He had made 
her promise now to take a rest. 

“Jim is coming to dinner on Sunday,” said Lady 
Murray. 

_ “Yes. Would you care to ask Richard to meet 
him? They don’t know 7 each other,” said Carina. 

“I think this time we’ll have Jim alone,” said her 
aunt, mendaciously. She feared Mr. Grove’s influ¬ 
ence over her niece. And she was quite certain that 
he didn’t like Jim, had heard things against him— 
from Iris’s people, no doubt. Old Mr. Feardon had 
never forgiven his son-in-law. 

But when they returned home that morning they 
found a little note from Mallory, saying that he was 
going back to Linfold on Saturday, so would be un¬ 
able to dine with them on Sunday. Business was call¬ 
ing him home for the week-end. The note was a 
little abrupt. Lady Murray felt disappointed. 

“He’s thinking better of it,” was her inward com¬ 
ment. 

She ascribed the changed plans to Peter’s hostile 
attitude. Undoubtedly it had influenced his father, 
and perhaps compelled him to give the matter further 
and more serious consideration. She wished Carina 
had shown a little disappointment, but her niece’s 
face when she heard the contents of Mallory’s letter 
expressed only a vague relief. 

For some little time the situation remained at a 
complete standstill. This arrested development, just 
when everything had seemed so promising, perplexed 


CARINA 


47 


and disappointed Lady Murray. She was anxious 
that Carina should marry, now that Mary was dead, 
and she was so completely without ties. It was what 
Mallory had, rather than what he was, that had 
made her so desirous of bringing about the match. 
Its inherent unsuitability did not strike her at all. If 
you had a husband, she argued, you had much better 
have a rich one. Carina had had quite enough of 
poverty and struggling, and although she was now 
making a fairly good income it would be far better 
for her not to have to work at all. Lady Murray 
was not a great believer in love, having never ex¬ 
perienced anything but the most moderate affection 
for her own husband, with whom she had passed 
thirty-five years of eventless matrimony. Neverthe¬ 
less, after her own fashion she had been sincerely 
attached to him, and had been almost broken-hearted 
when he died. He had contributed greatly to her 
comfort, had conscientiously smoothed all the rough 
places of her path for her, and she was not a woman 
who liked to fend for herself. She had missed the 
smoothings. . . . But love, in her opinion, was 

at best a capricious passion. Possessions, on the 
other hand, were solid things—things you could take 
hold of and enjoy. Mallory’s possessions were es¬ 
pecially solid. And he was just the sort of man who 
would counteract that slight waywardness Carina 
sometimes displayed. If she married him, she would 
have a charming home, a fixed place in the world, 
certain pleasant duties, plenty of money to spend. 
There was Peter of course, obviously antagonistic 
to the affair even in its embryo stages, but Mallory 
was not weak—it was little likely that he would 
spoil his son to the detriment of his own wife. 

Yet, it was surely Peter’s attitude that had driven 
Jim headlong back to his Sussex fastness, making 
him pause before he took any irrevocable step. Lady 


48 


CARINA 


Murray had always hitherto liked Peter; now she 
felt thoroughly annoyed with him. He wanted a 
firm hand over him. Jim would be laying up trouble 
for himself if he allowed his son to get the upper 
hand of him now. 

Carina seemed perfectly indifferent to the fact 
that for some weeks after the Eton and Harrow 
match nothing more was seen of Mallory. He had 
fled from her, just as once she had for a moment 
envisaged the necessity of fleeing from him. She 
was perhaps slightly relieved, despite the flick to 
her pride. But she refrained from discussing the 
subject with Lady Murray, and studiously concealed 
from that lady how frequently her thoughts dwelt 
upon the Mallorys, father and son. They interested 
her, intrigued her; she would have liked to see more 
of them both, if she had been quite certain that 
nothing further would come of it. She dreaded being 
dragged into the net of Jim’s dominating personality; 
she had already felt its effect upon her, and it had 
even made her miss him, a feeling which she disliked 
very much. 

Toward the end of July a letter came from Mall¬ 
ory, addressed to Lady Murray, inviting her and 
her niece down to Linfold for a few days on the 
following Friday. Lady Murray was elated at this 
recrudescence of the Mallory affair, and took the 
note in triumph to Carina. 

London was hot and airless; the season was 
dragging to its rather wearisome close. It hadn’t 
been at all a gay season; so many people were still 
in mourning. There was really nothing to be gained 
by remaining any longer in town. And Lady Murray 
loved the country. Especially she loved the range 
of bold bare hills, the green and deliciously-wooded 
valleys, the glimpses of the blue line of sea, that 
Sussex could give. 


CARINA 


49 


^ “Jim Mallory wants us to go down to Linfold on 
Friday,” she announced. 

“You know it’s impossible. I haven’t a thing to 
wear, and I hate visiting.” 

“Well, if you refuse this time, he’ll probably draw 
his own conclusions!” 

“What conclusions?” inquired Carina. 

“I mean—this invitation shows that he wishes to 
see more of you. If you don’t go, you may be throw¬ 
ing away a chance you will regret.” 

“Dear Aunt Nora, I wish I could convince you that 
he hasn’t the remotest thought of marrying me.” 

“No, Carina, you can’t convince me. I am sure 
he’s thinking of it.” 

“I should never regret having prevented him from 
proposing to me,” said Carina emphatically. 

She disliked these conventional preliminaries, the 
wholly unnecessary and tiresome approach shots. If 
the man loved her, and wanted her to be his wife, 
why couldn’t he say so? She would give him a 
straight answer, yes or no. But if he wasted his time 
in weighing the pros and cons, with too great a show 
of middle-aged prudence, she was sure she could 
never wish to marry him. 

“Anyhow, you ought to see Linfold,” said Lady 
Murray. “And a few days in the country will do 
you good. You’re looking pale.” 

“Now, you old darling, that isn’t what you mean 
at all.” Carina put her arms affectionately round 
her aunt’s neck and kissed her. “The truth is, I’m 
such a handful that you want to get rid of me, and 
you’re almost capable of making the demarches your¬ 
self!” 

But in the end Carina gave in. She even submitted 
to the distasteful necessity of buying new clothes. 
Lady Murray wanted her to make a good impres¬ 
sion upon Sophia Mallory—Jim’s sister—if she hap- 


5 ° 


CARINA 


pened to be there. Peter would, of course, have 
now returned home for the holidays. But this in¬ 
vitation seemed to hint that Jim had succeeded in 
placating Peter. 

The day before their departure Richard Grove 
dropped in during the afternoon to tea. They had 
not seen him for some weeks; he had been away 
from London finishing a book in a tiny out-of-the- 
world cottage, eight miles from a station, in Corn¬ 
wall. The only place, where, as he always said, he 
could feel certain of not being interrupted. He 
emerged from this sylvan retreat only to hear that 
Carina was to go down to Linfold on a visit with 
her aunt. He refused to believe it at first, and 
came round on purpose to hear it denied or con¬ 
firmed. 

“Oh, yes, we’re going to-morrow,” said Carina 
listlessly. Aunt Nora positively wouldn’t let me 
refuse.” 

Richard Grove looked at her intently. They were 
alone, and he thought Carina was looking pale and 
languid. 

“Do you like this man?” he asked bluntly. 

“I don’t know,” said Carina. “Don’t tease me, 
Richard.” 

“I’m not teasing you. But if you don’t like him, 
you’d much better not go. Keep out of his way. He 
might make you like him.” 

“Where would be the harm?” asked Carina. “I 
suppose some day I shall have to like somebody. 
Why shouldn’t it be Mr. Mallory?” She leaned her 
chin on her hand and looked at Richard. 

“I could give you a great many reasons. One is 
that he’s too old. Another is that he’s a Protestant. 
A third is that he would probably make you very 
miserable!” 


CARINA 


5i 


“I do love you, Richard, when you’re serious!” 
said Carina, frivolously. 

“I can’t think what your aunt’s about, to encour¬ 
age it,” he grumbled. “She must see how utterly 
unsuitable it is.” 

“Uncle Timothy was a great dear, and she thinks 
all men are like him,” explained Carina. 

“Mallory made his first wife miserable,” said 
Richard Grove. “I know her people quite well. He 
never lets them see anything of Peter. He’s a very 
hard man, Carina, and I warn you that he can never 
make you happy.” 

“I don’t believe he has the slightest intention of 
asking me to marry him,” said Carina coolly. “We 
lunched with him one day at Lord’s just after Aunt 
Nora’s dinner-party, and since then he’s never been 
near us. Don’t you think that looks very prudent 
and sensible?” 

“A man of his age doesn’t act impulsively like a 
boy. No doubt he had to think it over very care¬ 
fully. But this invitation looks like business, and I 
do advise you most strongly, Carina, not to go.” 

“You’ve come too late, Richard, it’s all settled,” 
said Carina. “We’ve been buying frocks hard in 
order to dazzle him.” She was laughing now, but 
no smile relieved the gravity and gloom of Richard’s 
face. 

He rose and took his leave abruptly. 

“Good-bye, my dear child. Don’t do anything 
rash. And don’t spoil that beautiful life of yours!” 

He hurried out of the room. 


CHAPTER VI 


T HEY arrived at Lintown—a charming seaport 
situated close to the cliffs and downs of Sussex 
—at the close of a golden August afternoon. Mall¬ 
ory was on the platform to meet them—an atten¬ 
tion which Lady Murray had hardly expected, and 
which seemed to augur well for his eagerness to see 
Carina again. He looked younger—almost boyish 
—in his grey flannel suit and straw hat, and his face, 
sunburnt and healthy, wore a joyful expression. If 
he had come to any decision during these weeks of 
separation it was surely, Lady Murray thought, a 
favorable one. 


“I’m afraid there’s simply nothing to amuse you,” 
Mallory said, as they drove through the town in his 
car. “I haven’t asked anyone else, and even Peter’s 
away—yachting at Cowes with a friend. My sister’s 
here, and that’s all. You see, I was selfish enough 
to want all your attention.” He smiled at Carina 
as he spoke, and he let his eyes rest upon her in a 
full long glance. 

So Sophia Mallory was there. Not a wise move 
that, on the part of Jim, thought Lady Murray. 
Miss Mallory was known to have a vigilant eye and 
a sharp tongue. If there was a weak spot anywhere, 
she could always unerringly detect it. Would she 
be likely to approve of Carina? 

Carina was looking delicious to-day in a soft white 
dress, and a large white hat tied with black ribbon. 
She was perfectly at her ease, calm and friendly. 

They soon left the town behind them and climbed 
a long steep road that cut across the downs. Then 


52 


CARINA 


53 


the car dipped into a valley from which they had a 
divine view of the sea, blue and silver under that 
wide tranquil sky. 

“That’s Linfold Glen,” said Mallory suddenly, 
pointing to a great space of woodland that clothed 
the hill in front of them with a lovely garment of 
verdure. “We shall see the house in a minute. There 
—between the trees on that lower spur.” 

On the breast of the downs they could see a great 
grey house, long rather than high, with gabled roofs 
and immense square chimneys that were palely sil¬ 
houetted against the surrounding trees. Below it, 
was a wide open space of country flowing away nearly 
to the sea, filled with cornfields where the wheat was 
growing golden and bronze in the strong sunshine, 
and grass meadows where the cattle were lazily 
browsing. Hills and fields and delicious woods and 
that heavenly glimpse of sea, made a typically 
English picture, secure, sheltered, immemorially 
calm. 

As Mallory spoke, he looked at Carina, perhaps 
to see what effect that picture, so dear to him, would 
have upon her. She was seeing it for the first time, 
this beloved spot where almost the whole of his life 
had been spent. What did she think of it? Was it 
more or less gracious and beautiful than any mental 
picture she might have formed of it? 

Carina looked at it with shining eyes. 

“How beautiful,” she said quietly. 

Mallory was satisfied. 

In the weeks that had intervened since their last 
meeting, Jim had forced himself to examine the situa¬ 
tion from every point of view. During this process 
he had learned that his wish to marry Carina was 
far greater than his fear of becoming partially 
estranged from Peter. For years he had taught 
himself to believe that all the thoughts and ambi- 


54 


CARINA 


tions ot his life were centred in his only son, and 
the knowledge had undoubtedly in the past restrained 
him from embarking upon a second matrimonial 
venture. He could only believe now that on those 
other occasions his heart had not been touched at 
all; he had been temporarily fascinated perhaps by 
a pretty face or spurred by the consciousness of his 
increasing loneliness. In any case, he had escaped 
without hurt. But this time he had discovered that 
to separate himself permanently from Carina would 
involve great and abiding hurt. He found himself 
continually thinking of her. No mere impulse had 
finally prompted that invitation to Lady Murray; 
it had been the result of deep soul-searching. Mall¬ 
ory’s was a simple nature, and it had suffered violence 
from being forced to face a highly complicated 
psychological problem involving two other lives be¬ 
sides his own. Someone would have to suffer, and 
to know that this one would certainly be Peter, did 
not make his path any more smooth. He had al¬ 
ready seen Peter writhing under that first inception 
of mental suffering, and perhaps his own harshly 
injudicious action had but contributed to crystallize 
the boy’s jealous misery. 

It had been the action of a coward to send Peter 
away without even telling him that he had invited 
Miss Ramsden to stay at Linfold. Jim had felt 
like a traitor when Peter’s smiling, happy, uncon¬ 
scious face had looked back at him from the train 
that was to take him to Portsmouth. He had not 
been frank with his son, and it seemed to him that 
already their relations had undergone a subtle change. 
There would never again be that frank friendly 
intercourse between them, an intercourse that prom¬ 
ised to be more equal and intimate as the years went 
on and Peter grew to be a man. Jim had often 
looked forward to that time, with its happy exemp- 


CARINA 


55 


tion from all parental interference and discipline, 
when he and Peter would enjoy together the uninter¬ 
rupted round of sport that Linfold offered during 
the successive seasons of the year. Something of 
this would now necessarily be changed. To gain a 
great gift entails almost always the offering of a 
sacrifice. And it was Peter who must be in a sense 
sacrificed—Peter, whose feelings must be disre¬ 
garded. 

Jim hadn’t liked these reflections at. all. Nor¬ 
mally all his actions were simple, and involved no 
problems. It was hateful to sacrifice Peter’s happi¬ 
ness deliberately in this way, and it made him feel 
both treacherous and selfish. But the afternoon was 
already bringing its reward. When he had said to 
Carina, “that’s Linfold—” he had suddenly felt a 
curiously strong conviction that he was showfing her 
her future home. He thought of her in the gra¬ 
cious setting of the grey old Manor House, with its 
panelled walls, its gables, its surrounding woods 
with the blue gleam of sea beyond, and he felt glad 
that he had all this to offer to the beloved woman. 
How greatly beloved he had not realized untd now, 
when he had seen her again after those, weeks .of 
deliberate separation. But the realization of its 
measure made him suddenly embarrassed, as if it 
had raised a beautiful, exquisite barrier between 

them. , , , 

He loved her, and she had at least not been un¬ 
willing to come and stay at Linfold. Perhaps Lady 
Murray had given her niece a hint, since so little 
escaped that astute, experienced though kindly eye. 
He could not feel to-day that Larina was quite 
ignorant of his feeling for her; he even thought that 
it must have been communicated to her by some un¬ 
explained process of thought-transference, flowing 
from his own heart to hers. 


CARINA 


56 

More than sixteen years ago he had brought his 
bride to Linfold. He had believed himself to be 
happy then, but it was not with this indescribable 
happiness that seemed to fling showers of golden 
light over the English countryside. He had been 
young—scarcely twenty-five—and Iris had been a 
couple of years older. There was money, for she 
had inherited a comfortable fortune from her grand¬ 
mother. That money would be Peter’s when he 
reached the age of twenty-five, in accordance with 
an absurd suggestion of old Mr. Feardon’s, which 
Iris, an obedient daughter, had duly carried out 
when making her will. She had been pretty then, 
in rather a charming colorless way, and was besides 
very deeply in love with him. She was an only child, 
accustomed to parental control of a wise, suave 
kind, and Jim had continued the control less wisely 
and suavely. There had been clouds. Her con¬ 
tinued delicacy after the boy’s birth. . . . Her 

perpetual nervous fears. . . . The disagree¬ 
ments that had arisen over Peter. . . . Old 

Mr. Feardon’s insolent interference. . . . The 

chapter had been closed for more than six years, but 
Mallory was too honest a man to attribute all the 
blame of the past to his wife. He had been harsh 
and violent when kindness and care and patience had 
been absolutely essential. But the slow drifting 
apart had hurt him too, and it was a relief when at 
last Iris had died of that slow lingering illness of 
hers. Who could blame him for trying now to start 
a fresh page, a fresh chapter? He wished that Peter 
could be brought to view the matter sensibly. But 
Peter had something of his mother’s hidden secret 
obstinacy. You could break her, but never bend her. 
What would Peter say if he ever heard that Carina 
was to be ensconced permanently at Linfold? 

“That glimpse of the sea makes it perfect,” said 


CARINA 


57 


Carina. “I like to feel it near, but not too near.” 

She was thinking less of the man at her side than 
of the perfection of Linfold, especially in regard to 
its suitability as a decor for a book. How shocked 
Mallory would be, could he have divined her 
thoughts! Well, perhaps not exactly shocked, but 
bewildered and hurt. 

Mallory drove the car himself, with Carina seated 
beside him. Lady Murray was alone in the tonneau; 
she had agreed with alacrity to the suggested ar¬ 
rangement. She was quite prepared to take a back 
seat, and leave Carina to shine in the limelight. . It 
was sufficient for her to see that they were talking 
together with such happy animation. Carina wasn’t 
being in the least tiresome and stiff, as she had feared 

she might be. , 

“I’ve been reading your last novel,” Mallory sud¬ 
denly informed Miss Ramsden. 

“Do you mean Love among the Ruins? 11 
“Yes. It’s a queer title for a book—I think that 

attracted me.” 

After a little pause he resumed: 

“It was very sad. You must have been very sad 

when you wrote it.” 

“That doesn’t always follow. Some so-called 
comic writers have had sad lives.. Perhaps they wrote 
like that to get away from them own grief. I he 
tragedy of clowns is proverbial.” 

She had not asked him if he liked her book, though 
he had been rather expecting a question of the kind. 
And he wanted to speak of it. A11 the way through 
—and he had read it very carefu ly—he had longed 
to find her in it, but the writer had eluded him to 

a degree that was exasperating. He said: 

“I couldn’t find you in it all. It wasnt for want 
£ • * ) 

° There was charm, but not her charm. Nowhere 


CARINA 


58 

throughout the book had he been able to discern 
her voice speaking. Had she purposely hidden that 
side of herself from him, or did she normally keep 
her work in a separate compartment, as it were, of 
her life, just as if she had been the possessor of a 
dual personality? The thought intrigued him. If 
he married her, he would want to possess her wholly; 
she mustn’t hide that side of her intellect that held 
her work, from him. And yet the thought that this 
creative fire burnt and glowed within her, fascinated 
him. 

“But Richard Grove always says I’m so like my 
books,” she protested. 

The swift movement of the car exhilarated her. 
She felt extraordinarily happy and filled with a new 
gaiety which seemed to have nothing to do with Jim 
Mallory at all. Yet she felt grateful to him for his 
share in giving her this recovered sense of happi¬ 
ness. 

“Perhaps you may be like some of the others, then. 
I’ve only read Love among the Ruins,” he said, in 
a slightly mortified tone. 

“Richard would tell you it’s an indifferent but 
quite characteristic example.” 

“You’re always quoting Grove,” said Mallory, 
half jealously. 

“Well, he’s my chief critic—he helped to drill 
me into shape. And he’s very severe—he never 
spares. But afterward one sees that he was right, 
though one hates his horrid blue pencil at the time. 
When I’m reading other people’s novels I often 
think: If Richard had read that passage he’d have 
stuck his blue pencil through it.” She laughed 
gaily. 

“But perhaps he was altogether wrong. How do 
you know he gave you good advice? How do you 
know he didn’t spoil your book?” 


CARINA 


59 

“I suppose because he is Richard, and a master 
of style,” she said, very seriously. 

“He doesn’t look so very wonderful,” said Mall¬ 
ory sulkily. 

Carina laughed—a gay silvery ripple of sound that 
enchanted Jim and restored him to good humor. 

“Oh, you mustn’t judge Richard by his clothes! 
They’re the oddest things in the world!” 

The car turned in at the lodge gates, which were 
opened as they approached by a pretty little fair¬ 
haired girl of twelve. She made a curtsey to Mall¬ 
ory. 

“What a dear little girl,” exclaimed Carina. 

“Lucy? Oh, she’s pretty enough, but an idle mis¬ 
chievous little wretch. Her mother spoils her.” 

“I think I like children to be a little spoilt,” said 
Carina. “My father spoilt us and it made us so 
happy.” 

“It isn’t always practicable,” said Jim. “Children 
have to be trained. I know all about it—I’ve had 
to lick Peter into shape.” 

She was silent, realizing that Mallory was speak¬ 
ing from the parent’s point of view. It made him 
seem older. Whenever she thought of him in con¬ 
nection with his son, he always seemed so very old 
compared with herself. 

Mallory drew up the car in front of the house. 
He sprang out, and assisted Lady Murray and Carina 
to alight. All the time he was thinking, “Some day 
I shall bring her home like this as my bride.” All 
the servants would be gathered there to watch her 
arrival. It was an ecstatic, wonderful moment to 
see Carina enter his house for the first time. . • • 

Jim led the way into the great drawing-room with 
its long windows open to the garden, its delicious 
glimpse of distant sea. It was always used in sum¬ 
mer, and it was a noble room with lofty walls cov- 


6o 


CARINA 


ered with delicate old green silk, and white stucco 
friezes and panels. Carina had often seen rooms 
thus decorated in Italian palaces, but she had hardly 
expected to find one like it in Sussex. It had been 
first arranged in this way by Jim’s grandfather, and 
the scheme had never been changed. Most of the 
furniture, too, was antique and beautifully inlaid. It 
was a very perfect room, made the more beautiful 
with quantities of flowers both in pots and vases, 
which were distributed everywhere. Jim, conscious 
of its perfection, watched its effect upon Carina. 

From a distant window-seat a tall figure arose and 
approached them. Jim introduced them. “Sophia, 
I forget if you’ve ever met Lady Murray. My sister 
—Miss Ramsden.” 

Miss Mallory was more or less a Jim in petti¬ 
coats, and the type did not favor feminine charm. 
She was tall, powerfully-built as was her brother, 
with long limbs and broad shoulders. Her immense 
form was clad in grey tweed. Her hair, once dark 
but now grizzled like Jim’s, was abundant and un¬ 
tidy. Her complexion was weather-beaten and in¬ 
clined to be red. She invariably produced an im¬ 
pression of massive almost granite-like bulk upon 
newcomers. 

Carina felt slightly awed at this imposing lady. 
She wasn’t astonished that Sophia’s sojourn at Lin- 
fold, during the late Mrs. Mallory’s lifetime, had not 
been crowned with success. 

She felt her hand grasped in a firm solid hand 
of considerable size. 

“I’ve been reading your book, Miss Ramsden,” 
said a bass voice; “although I must confess novels 
aren’t in my line. When I was young I was taught 
they were waste of time.” 

Carina looked up into her face and smiled. She 
had often encountered that attitude, so familiar to 


CARINA 


61 


all authors. But her own success was too assured, 
too secure to be injured by it. 

“I’m quite sure it’s waste of time to read mine!” 
she cheerfully announced. Her smile was intended 
to propitiate, but had Miss Mallory uttered her 
thoughts aloud she would only have said: “My 
dear girl, it won’t advance your cause in the least 
to make love to me!” 

She mistook the nature of Miss Ramsden’s cor¬ 
diality. In her opinion, Carina was only one of a 
long succession of charming women who had tried 
to “catch” Jim. This one was, unlike the rest, clever. 
Very clever indeed, if one were to judge by Love 
among the Ruins. A peculiar book, but interesting 
and masterful. 

Now seeing Carina, she was perfectly well able 
to understand why Jim had been so swiftly fascinated. 
This was a new type. A girl who had worked hard 
and made her own way, and had achieved success 
before she was twenty-five. Very creditable of 
course, but Jim must be careful. There was Peter. 
Peter was like a young archangel standing at the 
gates of Linfold with a drawn sword. . . . 

Miss Mallory did not like Peter, but she admired 
him. He was, in so many ways, very like Jim, 
though unfortunately he had inherited his mother’s 
highly-strung temperament. 

She suspected Jim of being in deadly earnest where 
this Miss Ramsden was concerned.. She was not at 
all averse to her brother’s re-marriage, if a suitable 
person could be found. But Carina was eminently 
unsuitable. She had little money except what she 
earned. Miss Mallory was old-fashioned enough 
to prefer a woman with no money at all, rather than 
one with earned money. She watched Jim, but he 
was very careful, and assiduous in his attentions to 
Lady Murray. 


6 2 


CARINA 


Miss Ramsden was far too young for the post. 
She was a mere scrap of a girl with that clipped 
bright hair, that slight boyish form. She wasn’t old 
enough to be Peter’s stepmother. Jim would have 
two children to look after instead of one. . . . 

Miss Mallory was only partially acquainted with 
the events that had taken place the day of the Eton 
and Harrow match. She had a confidential maid, 
and the servants on their return from Bryanston 
Square had gossiped. There had been a scene 
between father and son, and a housemaid had over¬ 
heard ominous sounds that told of a whipping being 
administered. . . . Putting two and two together 
Miss Mallory concluded that the quarrel had had 
its origin in Jim’s too open attentions to Miss Rams¬ 
den. Peter’s jealousy of his father—an old story— 
had been stirred, and perhaps with rash imprudence 
he had uttered a word of protest. Both Jim and 
Peter were silent on the subject; she had tried un- 
availingly to sound them both. No doubt, Peter 
had richly deserved his thrashing, but it seemed to 
suggest that Jim would brook no interference where 
Miss Ramsden was concerned. 

So when Jim said to her carelessly that evening as 
he bade her good-night: “What do you think of 
Miss Ramsden, Sophy?” she only replied warily: 

“She is very artistic-looking, Jim. I couldn’t get 
much out of her myself, but Pm sure she must be 
charming.” 

She smiled at Jim as she spoke, as much as to 
say: “Don’t you suppose I can see through you, you 
dear old goose?” 

Jim kissed her and said no more. 


CHAPTER VII 


I T WAS during dinner on the following evening 
that Carina dropped her bombshell. She had 
quite put the matter from her mind, always intend¬ 
ing to refer to it when occasion offered, if it should 
indeed ever seem necessary to do so. 

Looking toward Jim she said: 

“Is there a Catholic church near here?” 

“A Catholic church? Why?” He looked, and 
indeed he felt, frankly puzzled. 

There had been allusions—sympathetic allusions 
—to the Catholic Faith in Love among the Ruins, 
and he had attributed it to the fact of her having 


lived so long in Rome, and perhaps come into con¬ 
tact with that Church whose fascination is prover¬ 
bial. But he had never discussed religion with Carina. 
Their intercourse had been altogether too slight to 
admit of any sounding of the depths. Jim was not a 
person to whom spiritual things meant a great deal. 
“I don’t think there is. I never heard of one,” 

he said. # . 

“I know there’s one at Lintown, but that is eight 

miles away, and I don’t suppose there are any Sun¬ 
day trains,” said Miss Ramsden. 

Lady Murray here thought well to interpose. 
“My niece is a Catholic. I thought you knew 

she said 

The faces of both brother and sister betrayed as> 
tonishment and even dismay. Lady Murray thought 
indignantly: u Carina ought to have ^told him. She 
takes too much for granted. . . She blamed 




63 


6 4 


CARINA 


Carina, who was secretly enjoying the situation she 
had so inadvertently created. It amused her to watch 
the effect of her aunt’s speech upon Jim. She was 
still perfectly heart-free, and had not yet reached 
the stage of fearing to lose what was not quite won. 
All day Jim had been charming to her, sitting in the 
garden with her during the hot hours of the morning, 
and taking her in his car to visit the picturesque spots 
in the neighborhood in the cool of the evening. They 
had been alone together nearly all day. Lady Mur¬ 
ray had effaced herself. 

Carina derived a certain half-malicious pleasure 
in putting Jim’s admiration to the test, proving 
exactly what it was worth. She did not know that 
he had already taken some pretty formidable fences, 
but this one was immeasurably greater than all the 
rest, and for the moment he felt that his nerve might 
fail him. 

She guessed something of the strain placed upon 
his growing love for her, and wondered if it would 
withstand this without suffering disruption. Aware 
throughout the day of the veiled disapproval and 
hostility of Miss Mallory, Carina enjoyed no less 
the effect of the disclosure upon that lady. 

Mallory was the first to recover his speech. His 
faculty for rapidly reviewing an unexpected situa¬ 
tion, often observable in the hunting man, stood him 
in good stead. He saw that he was being sharply 
tested; whether intentionally or not, it was impos¬ 
sible at present to conjecture. And in any case that 
was a side issue. To be found wanting now, would 
be to lose all chance of ultimate success; to yield, 
would at least win him the move “without preju¬ 
dice.” 

“We’re much too far from our nearest station 
for the trains to be of any use to you,” he said. “But 


CARINA 65 

of course I’ll motor you in to Lintown if you’ll tell 
me what time your service begins.” 

“High Mass is at half-past ten,” said Carina, who 
had looked up these details in the Catholic Directory 
before leaving London. It was her invariable prac¬ 
tice to do this, before spending a Sunday in the 
country. In these days of weakening prejudice she 
had seldom considered it necessary to mention her 
religion beforehand, and in large houses she could 
remember provision was always made for any Cath¬ 
olics who happened to be there, to attend Mass on 
Sundays. But those occasions had been long ago, 
before she had left England with Mary in pre-War 
days. 

Miss Mallory interposed for the first time. 

“You’d better let Miss Ramsden go in alone, Jim. 
You’ll miss the morning service here if you go to 
Lintown.” 

Jim reddened slightly. Really, Sophia was too 
interfering for words. He answered after a mo¬ 
ment’s pause: 

“Oh, they’ll manage without me—they’ll still have 
the parson and clerk. And I can easily go to church 
in Lintown. You’d better be ready at half past nine, 
Miss Ramsden.” 

“Thanks so much. I’m dreadfully sorry to give 
you so much trouble,” Carina murmured. 

All through the little conversation she had been 
admiring Jim for his cool resourcefulness. She could 
see that even if the discovery of her religion had been 
a disagreeable surprise to him, he wasn’t going to 
let it interfere with their harmonious intercourse. 
She was quite sure now, that he had invited her to 
Linfold with the ultimate object of asking her to be 
his wife. At that moment Linfold Park, with all 
that was so beautiful and romantic in the house and 
its setting, did profoundly attract her. Jim seemed 


66 


CARINA 


part of it all; one saw him to the best advantage in 
his own home. Carina was neither ambitious in the 
worldly sense, nor grasping, but she did feel very 
strongly the attraction and charm of Lin fold the 
beautiful part—the old grey house in its adorable 
setting of dim woods—its divine glimpses of the sea. 

She had experienced in the past, financial anxiety; 
she had worked hard, and lived frugally in order 
that Mary might have all that she required. She 
was not afraid of life in its more austere phases; 
struggle and effort had a certain attraction for her. 
But she was beginning to feel, on the other hand, 
that Jim could give her things that she needed very 
much, things that her art needed. Leisure and tran¬ 
quillity and that freedom from care which so often 
aids an author to put forth of his best. She felt 
that here, perhaps, she would be able to write that 
beautiful book of which most authors dream. The 
life that Jim could offer her was of a kind she had 
never really savored except in occasional glimpses. 
Her eyes met his across the table, and she realized 
that tacitly she had invited him that evening to make 
a sacrifice for her, and that he had responded readi¬ 
ly and generously. She liked him better then, than 
she had ever done. 

“It was singularly foolish of you not to mention 
it before!” 

Lady Murray took her niece to task that night 
after they had retired. The maid had been dis¬ 
missed, their rooms communicated, and thus a useful 
opening occurred for administering the rebuke. 

“It wasn’t fair to Jim—telling him like that in 
front of Sophia Mallory!” 

✓ “Why, what has Sophia got to do with it?” asked 
Carina, brushing her clipped hair vigorously back 
from her forehead. 


CARINA 67 

“Naturally, it must have provoked Jim to feel 
you hadn’t told him sooner.” 

“I can’t see that it matters to him,” said Carina 
wearily. 

“Of course it matters very much indeed. Even 
you must see that he’s fallen desperately in love with 
you. And to have such a complication hurled at one’s 
head in the middle of dinner—!” 

“You can’t think how I enjoyed watching Sophia’s 
face,” said Carina impenitently. “But Mr. Mall¬ 
ory was awfully nice about it, wasn’t he?” 

Lady Murray felt exasperated. “Well, of course 
if you want to throw away the best chance you’re 
ever likely to have!” 

“Don’t be cross with me, dear Aunt Nora,” said 
Carina, going up to her and kissing her. “You see, 
he never asked me about my religion, or I should 
have told him. It’s not a thing one is always talk¬ 
ing about, especially to comparative strangers. I 
hate missing Mass, as you know. . . . And 

he bore it beautifully, though it really was an acid 
test.” 

“I think you are perfectly heartless,” said Nora 
Murray. But her eyes softened as they rested upon 
the young lovely face. 

“You know I’m not heartless,” said Carina, taking 
her aunt’s hand and kissing it. “But I don’t seem 
to have much love left for anyone now. I gave it 
all to Mary, and she doesn’t need it any more. Per¬ 
haps I’ve got to grow it again, if such a thing’s pos¬ 
sible.” 

Her face was quite bright; there was no hint of 
sentimentality in the pathetic words. Lady Murray, 
mollified, bent her head and kissed her. 

“I don’t think you quite realize what a compli¬ 
ment Jim’s paying you. A man who might have 


68 


CARINA 


married anyone. Lady Chiltern’s been trying for 
ages to catch him for her eldest daughter.” 

“I only wish he’d chosen someone else,” said 
Carina. “You see, I don’t .fit in well, and Mr. Mall¬ 
ory knows it, too. But you mustn’t think that I don’t 
like and appreciate him, because I do. I wish that 
he wasn’t so terribly old, and that he hadn’t got a 
son as tall as I am.” 

“Oh, if that’s all—!” said Lady Murray, waving 
aside such trifles airily. “It’s high time you had 
someone to lean on, my dear. Good-night.” 

They kissed each other and separated. 

Carina wa9 ready punctually on the following 
morning. She had breakfasted in her own room 
as usual, a habit which Sophia had privately con¬ 
demned as “those lazy continental ways of hers,” 
although comforting herself with the reflection that 
Jim would soon put a stop to all that, if he married 
her. 

She was dressed in white, and Jim coming down a 
few minutes later glanced at her approvingly. 

“I’m going to drive you in myself. I’ve given the 
chauffeur a holiday.” 

“How kind of you,” said Carina. 

“You’ll sit up in front with me, won’t you? 
There’s hardly any wind.” 

They sped off down the long drive with its twin 
rows of splendid lime trees. Their road lay across 
the downs, and in the distance they were soon able 
to discern Lintown lying between them and the sea, 
bathed in the silver haze of its own smoke. Beyond, 
the high blue line of the Channel showed vaguely. 

Above their heads a lark was singing its pure song 
of praise. 

“I’m coming to Mass, too,” said Mallory, sud¬ 
denly. “I’ve never been in my life, and I’m afraid 


CARINA 69 

I don’t know much about it. But I should like to 
go with you.” 

“That’s very kind of you,” said Carina. 

She thought: “He’s being terribly nice about it. I 
do see that he’s everything Aunt Nora says.” 

They drove on in silence. Presently Jim nodded 
toward a little village tucked away in a fold of the 
Sussex downs. “That’s Middleford, where my sister 
lives,” he said. “I’ve bought a house for her there. 
Quite a jolly little place. Shouldn’t mind living in 
it myself.” 

“But you’ve always lived at Unfold?” she asked. 

“Yes,” said Jim. “My father died the year I was 
married, and the place has been my own ever since. 
Peter was born there.” He paused for a moment 
and then said with an effort, “If I don’t tell you, 
someone else will; but I didn’t always hit it off with 
my wife. She was ill and nervous. It was my fault 
—a great deal of it—I wasn’t patient. . . .” 

Carina said softly: “I think there are always mo¬ 
ments when we blame ourselves for not having been 
kind enough to the ones we loved who have died.” 

“Kind enough? There were lots of times when 
I wasn’t kind at all!” said Jim, bluntly. His face in 
repose had a hard set look. 

“Oh, I’m so sorry for you—I know just how one 
feels. One could have done so much, instead of do¬ 
ing nothing at all. But it’s really better not to dwell 
upon it too much. Not to let it poison the present. 
Priests will tell you that, too. Once a sin has been 
repented of and confessed and absolved, it’s wiser 
for the soul not to dwell upon it—except perhaps 
for the purpose of stimulating contrition.” 

“I’ve always thought confession must be a very 
coddling process for the soul,” said Jim. 

Carina was silent. It was hardly the moment to 
discuss the advantages and disadvantages of the Sac- 


yo 


CARINA 


rament of Penance. It was there, it was part of 
one’s faith, it was of obligation to approach it. 
Carina always took her religion with perfect simpli¬ 
city, and she regarded Confession as a salutary meas¬ 
ure for the soul, besides being the only means by 
which one could savor the divine bliss of absolution. 
She never dwelt long upon the shame and humilia¬ 
tion that were incidental to it, as some sensitive souls 
will do. One paid . . . that was all. 

“You think that, because you’ve never experienced 
it,” she said at last, “but it isn’t so easy. It can 
hurt. . . .” 

Jim Mallory slowed down the car a little. They 
were alone, and the white dusty road stretched out 
emptily before them. On both sides of it the corn¬ 
fields waved a brilliant golden line against the sky. 

“Do you feel—you could marry a Protestant?” 
asked Jim. 

Carina flushed. “I’m not sure that I’ve ever 
thought much about it,” she confessed. 

“Your Church makes it difficult for you to marry 
a heretic, does it not?” he asked. 

“Yes. . . . There are difficulties—condi¬ 

tions.” 

“I don’t quite know what they are, but I believe 
they’re jolly unfair to our side!” 

“Well, you’re not obliged to marry a Catholic, 
are you?” said Carina. 

Jim stopped the car. No one was in sight on the 
steep road that ascended the hill in front of them. 
He took the girl’s slim gloved hand in his. 

“One can’t always help oneself. Love doesn’t 
discriminate. And I loved you before I knew you 
were a Catholic, Carina.” His voice trembled a 
little as he lingered over the soft syllables of her 

name as he uttered it for the first time in her pres¬ 
ence. 


CARINA 


7 1 


She was so wonderful in her strange beauty. And 
she had strength and power. Spiritual strength, as 
he was beginning to discern. . . . 

There was a little pause. Then Carina quietly 
released her hand. 

“You’d much better forget me,” she said. “You’d 
be very sorry later on, if you married a Catholic. 
And there’s Peter . . 

“Why do you say, ‘there’s Peter’?” he demanded. 

“Because I could see—even that day at Lord’s— 
that he’d taken a dislike to me. Almost as if he sus¬ 
pected something.” 

“Oh, I gave him a jolly good licking for his rude¬ 
ness,” said Jim; “he won’t be likely to try that on 
again.” 

Carina shuddered. “Oh, how could you be so 
cruel? You shouldn’t have punished him because 
of me—it’ll make him hate the thought of me!” 

“Nonsense!” said Mallory. “Boys have to be 
trained. I’ve thrashed Peter lots of times. . . 

Nevertheless, he felt slightly uncomfortable. He 
wished she had not introduced the subject of Peter. 
She would think him cruel and harsh in the treatment 
of his son. 

“Hadn’t we better go on?” said Carina. 

“Yes. But I want your answer first.” 

“What answer?” 

“Whether you’ll marry me.” 

“I can’t tell you now. You must give me time to 
think. . . . You’ve been telling me horrid 

things about yourself. . . .” 

Jim smiled. “Well, anyhow, you know the worst 
of me now!” he said, gripping the wheel with his 
strong hard hands. 

Carina looked at those lean powerful brown hands. 
At that moment she felt a little afraid of Mallory, 
even of his very love for her, that seemed to be 


72 


CARINA 


drawing her as if on a subtle thread toward him. He 
did not look cruel, but he was a man who was quite 
obviously accustomed to asserting his will, and knew 
what means to employ in order to enforce it. But 
Carina felt she was in her way quite as independent 
as he was in his. For more than seven years she 
had been absolutely her own mistress, working for 
her living, tending her sister, answerable to no one 
for her actions. She would want—in any new life 
that was offered to her—that same independence 
and liberty where temporal things were concerned. 
For spiritual guidance she looked faithfully to her 
Church. Mallory could give her a great deal, but 
he must not deprive her of those present benefits that 
were so dear to her. 

The silence was unbroken between them during 
the remainder of their journey. Carina was think¬ 
ing: “He’d much better let me go, and never think 
of me again. It’s hard for him too.” She reflected 
with justice that neither for herself nor for Jim was 
surrender an easy matter. 

But Jim clenched his teeth and thought: 

“I don’t care how difficult they make 
me!” . . . 


it for 


CHAPTER VIII 


M ASS had not yet begun when Mallory and 
Carina entered the little church of Our Lady 
Star of the Sea, at Lintown. As if in remembrance 
of those first Apostles and their humble calling, the 
fisher-folk in all lands have ever been the readiest 
converts, the most zealous, the easiest to convince. 
Aware of the terrific power of wind and wave, their 
hearts turn with a natural eagerness to Him Who 
is also Lord of the Storm. 

Carina knelt down and prayed. She was a little 
excited, and it was not easy at first to be recollected. 
The thing had actually happened, and Jim had asked 
her to be his wife, despite the fact of her being a 
Catholic. He attracted her, perhaps more than she 
was yet aware, but she did not love him. From time 
to time she glanced at him. His mouth was hard and 
finely cut, purposeful and obstinate. Under the thick 
greying dark hair the black brows cut a conspicu¬ 
ous line across his face, nearly meeting above the 
nose. The eyes were large, deep-set, piercing. It 
was a powerful face. There was something about 
him that made her feel afraid. . . 

The priest entered and went up to the Altar, ac¬ 
companied by a small boy as acolyte. Carina found 
that Mallory was kneeling beside her. He copied 
her actions, kneeling when she knelt, rising when she 
rose. 

His own thoughts were a queer medley. He felt 
rather like a man in a dream. This finding himself 
with Carina Ramsden in a Catholic church, hearing 

73 


74 


CARINA 


Mass for the first time, could have no possible rela¬ 
tion to reality. It was all part of this midsummer 
madness of love. . . . And yet he was con¬ 

scious of a grim determination to envisage this hard 
fact of her Catholicism, which had arisen like a 
bogey to baffle him in his love-quest, just as he had 
trampled upon or uprooted all the other barriers 
between them. Familiarity might make it less ter¬ 
rific—might even show him its side of spiritual loveli¬ 
ness. Mallory was one of those men who, brought 
up in the Established Church, accepted it in all simpli¬ 
city,. untroubled by its problems and increasing dis¬ 
sensions. The living at Linfold was in his hands, 
and he had himself presented it to the present in¬ 
cumbent, Mr. Humphreys, an old college friend of 
his own. His relations with the Humphreys and 
their growing family, had always been of the pleas¬ 
antest kind. And neither in his father’s lifetime nor 
in his own would it have been possible for the living 
to pass to any man of extreme views. The weekly 
services were conducted with simplicity. The rector 
was musical, and the choir was quite a decent one 
for a country parish. There were “Early Celebra¬ 
tions” on alternate Sundays at eight o’clock, ap¬ 
proached by Mallory at least three times a year. He 
often read the Lessons in church. Iris had dutifully 
followed his example in all things connected with 
religion. As long as her health permitted, her frail 
slender form had never failed to appear in the front 
pew on Sundays, with Peter’s small black head by 
her side. Peter. . . . Here Mallory’s thoughts 

came to a full stop, just as if he had run his head 
against a hard wall. 

Peter! . . He glanced at Carina. She 

might perhaps, when she had conquered, as she 
would most surely do, his early hostility, obtain a 
certain influence over Peter at a highly impression- 


CARINA 


75 


able age. This thought was an “extremely unpalat¬ 
able one, but Jim faced it now without shrinking. He 
shouldn’t at all like Peter to be turned into a young 
Papist! And yet he meant deliberately to introduce 
this alien exotic element into his house. Mallory 
fidgeted in his seat. It wasn’t going to be easy for 
him in any case. If Carina refused him, he believed 
that he would remain desolately alone for the rest 
of his life, and lately the sense of loneliness had been 
growing upon him, and he hadn’t liked it. He loved 
her; he could not envisage the possibility of losing 
her, much less could he bring that loss upon himself 
by refusing anything that her Church might require 
of him. But in the event of their marriage millions 
of difficulties and complications must automatically 
arise. He would wish her, of course, to be friendly 
with Peter, but he would wish also to be the one to 
define the precise limits of that intimacy. There 
must be no attempt to proselytize.. 

A bell rang three times, and Carina, who had been 
sitting, now knelt down again. Mallory followed 
her example. There was a breathless silence through¬ 
out the church, as if a moment of intense expectancy 
had come. Then a bell rang sharply, almost per¬ 
emptorily. Mallory watched the Elevation and then 
bowed his head. He felt the moment to be a solemn 
one, and he noticed that Carina’s face was quite 
hidden in her hands. He had an odd feeling, too, 
that Something had descended into the church, slight¬ 
ly changing as if by more profoundly deepening its 
holy and spiritual atmosphere. It was as if the very 
skirts of Heaven had been touched. He had. never 
felt this in any church before, and it had an irritat¬ 
ing effect upon him rather than a soothing one. He 
fought against the growing conviction that some¬ 
thing had actually 'happened during that breathless 
pause. Superstition, of course! Had not the Re- 


CARINA 


formation in England unmasked once and for all 
those priestly deceits? Yet Carina believed, and 
Mallory felt instinctively that it was a belief so firmly 
rooted that no power on earth could shake it, or 
diminish her devotion to her Faith. She was young, 
but her character was quite formed; she had the 
poise, the assurance of a much older woman. And 
this very religion had gone to the forming of her. 
It was part of her daily life. Marriage could effect 
no change there. And marriage would bring this 
thing into his house, in all its power. You could not 
separate Carina from her religion. Fie knew now 
why there had always seemed to him something un¬ 
usual about her, some touch of the unaccus¬ 
tomed. . . . 

A restlessness came over him. . . . He 

longed to get up and go away. The very atmos¬ 
phere of the church, surcharged with something he 
could not understand, disturbed him. He ought not 
to have come. He was submitting himself without 
adequate cause to the proverbial “fascination of 
Rome.” He ought to have left Carina at the door 
and gone to a Protestant church in Lintown. But 
all through his dealings with Carina Ramsden, he 
had shown himself a weak fool. 

When Mass was over, he followed her out of the 
church. At the door she paused, dipped her finger 
in the stoup of holy-water, and crossed herself, gen¬ 
uflecting as she did so toward the Altar. 

“Just a turn by the sea. It’s quite early, you 
know,” said Mallory, as he helped her into the car. 
“I must say this for your service, it is short enough.” 
There was a slight constraint in his voice. 

Carina acquiesced. He turned down a road that 
led .to the sea. There was a faint haze still on the 
horizon, but the sea was deeply blue and the little 
waves scarcely broke as they touched the sands in 


CARINA 


77 


silver ripples of light. The tide was nearly at its 
ebb. The salt fragrance of the air was delicious. 

Mallory pulled up the car. 

“Isn’t this topping? Do you care for the sea? I 
used to keep a yacht when I was a youngster—I’d 
start one again if you liked it!” 

“No—I like watching the sea, but I’m miserable 
on it,” she said. 

Clearly the events of the morning had in no way 
diminished his desire to marry her. 

There was a pause, then he said humbly: 

“When do you think you’ll be able to give me an 
answer?” 

Carina waited a moment. Then she said: “I’d 
rather you knew first exactly what marrying a Cath¬ 
olic entails. You could see the priest here some day 
and ask him. You would have to make sacrifices,” 
she added, “and it’s only fair that you should know 
exactly what they are.” 

Mallory felt a little chill of dismay. “Sacrifices?” 
he repeated. The word had for him an ominous, 
sinister sound. 

“Yes. Any priest will tell you what the conditions 
are. When you know, you can come and ask me to 
marry you. And if you don’t come—” 

He turned toward her eagerly. “If I don’t 
come r 

“I shall perfectly understand the reason,” an¬ 
swered Carina coldly. 

“And supposing I did come, would there be any 
hope for me?” he asked. His voice was rough and 
strained with emotion. For of course he would 
come. Nothing on earth could prevent him. No¬ 
thing—nothing. ... He wasn’t certainly going 
to jib at this last fence. . . . 

“I think—perhaps yes,” said Carina. 

Jim lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it. 


78 


CARINA 


“I should like to know exactly how matters stand,” 
said Lady Murray, following her niece into her bed¬ 
room after luncheon that day. 

She was in no sense Carina’s guardian, for Alfred 
Ramsden had left his girls perfectly independent of 
any exterior control after they had reached the age 
of eighteen years. But she was her aunt and her 
nearest relation, and if she had no authority she still 
considered that she possessed certain rights. It was 
under her roof that Carina had first met Mallory, 
and considering all things the affair had advanced 
with considerable rapidity. There had been some¬ 
thing in Mallory’s manner to the girl during luncheon 
that had certainly suggested a change in their mutual 
relations. It had been not exactly possessive, but it 
had held a touch of intimacy, almost of tenderness, 
just as if she were very dear to him and he didn’t 
care who knew it. 

Carina took up a brush and began to smooth back 
her red-gold crop with decided energy. 

“Sit down, dear Aunt Nora,” she said coaxingly. 

After all, there was no real reason why she 
shouldn’t relate all the happenings of the morning 
to her aunt. 

Lady Murray sat down and waited for Carina to 
speak again. She felt sure now that Jim had spoken, 
and she was eager to learn what Carina’s reply had 
been. 

“I’ve told Mr. Mallory he can ask me again to 
be his wife when he knows exactly what marrying 
a Catholic entails. If you ask me, I don’t believe 
that he knows much about it, and I haven’t the 
smallest doubt that it’ll put him off altogether.” 

Lady Murray gave a little gasp. “Oh, then he 
has asked you?” 

“Yes. But I couldn’t take advantage of his igno- 


CARINA 


79 


ranee. He is perfectly free, and so am I. If he finds 
things too difficult he won’t come back and I shall 
quite understand.” 

“My dear, you take it very calmly,” said Lady 
Murray. 

“Aunt Nora, I’m not a baby. I see that life is 
often very complicated, and that we ought to face 
it quite frankly. It’s a mistake to look at marriage 
only from a sentimental point of view.” 

Lady Murray regarded her niece with a certain 
admiration. She was showing considerable wisdom 
and prudence; she was managing Jim to perfection. 

“I’m sure that Jim’s devoted to you,” she said, re¬ 
membering with what a strange tenderness his eyes 
had rested upon Carina during luncheon. 

“Yes. I think he is. Did you know his first wife 
well, Aunt Nora?” 

“No—not well. I think I only saw her twice. She 
was such an invalid, you know. I wonder it didn’t 
wear him to a shadow, poor fellow.” 

“I feel sorry for her,” said Carina thoughtfully; 
“he told me that he hadn’t always been kind to her. 
He seemed to feel remorse about it. Do you think 
he’s very hard?” 

“No. But he’s self-willed and determined, and 
rather despotic. I like those qualities in a man,” 
said Lady Murray, who had, however, taken good 
care that her own husband should not possess them. 

“It depends,” said Carina, who was less certain 
of her own admiration for them. They might bruise 
you, she felt, if encountered at close quarters. And 
Jim had the physical strength which, combined with 
an iron will, can easily degenerate into brutality. 
Carina had felt his power; it had given her an un¬ 
comfortable little thrill from time to time. Espe¬ 
cially when he had spoken with such calm com¬ 
placency of having thrashed Peter for his rudeness. 


8o 


CARINA 


If she had been less indifferent to him, she might 
even have feared him. Love for Jim Mallory was 
bound to be touched strongly by fear. That soft, 
yielding humble attitude of his wasn’t likely to last. 

“He said that he’d punished Peter severely for 
being so rude that day. When he told me, he gave 
me the impression that he could be—cruel.” Carina 
paused before using the word. 

“Nonsense, my dear. From what I saw of Peter, 
I’m sure it was most necessary. And they’re devoted 
to each other—everyone says so.” 

Carina went on brushing her hair vigorously and 
in silence. She was looking at the matter this way 
and that, wishing that she knew her own mind more 
surely. She could see the good in Jim and the bad, 
and felt perplexed by the clearness of her own vision. 
She said at last: 

“I’ve always felt if I ever married, it would be 
someone more of my own age—of my own tastes. 
We should be companions, both doing our work, and 
then enjoying our leisure together. Perhaps we 
shouldn’t be very well off, but we should be happy, 
travelling about. I’m afraid, though I love Linfold, 
that I should feel cooped up here.” 

Lady Murray secretly considered that it would be 
the very best thing in the world for Carina to be 
cooped up. She had had quite enough of that rest¬ 
less, unsettled, roving life. 

“You mustn’t think I don’t like Mr. Mallory, 
because I do,” continued Carina. “I like him better 
than any man I’ve ever seen. His possessions don’t 
really attract me—I’ve never wanted to be fixed 
always in one place. But I do like him,” she repeated, 
“and I should be sorry if he found the conditions 
too difficult, and didn’t come back.” She made the 
confession with a perfect simplicity. 

“Oh, he’ll come back—you needn’t be in the least 



CARINA 


81 


afraid,” Lady Murray reassured her. “He’s des¬ 
perately in love with you. It seems an absurd thing 
to say of a man of his age, but he really seemed to 
fall in love with you at first sight I’m very glad, 
Carina. I want you to be happy.” 

“That’s very sweet of you, Aunt Nora. But I m 
not sure that even if I do marry him it will bring 
me happiness.” 

“Oh, you mustn’t let yourself have such gloomy 
doubts,” said Lady Murray. “Often, the way wants 
a little smoothing at first. And there are obstacles, 
though not very insuperable ones. Your being so 
much younger—his having that great son and then 
your religion. ... But Jim evidently means to 
make the best of it, and you must help him to do 


Carina laid down the brush. 

“Richard Grove told me not to spoil my beautiful 
life. He was thinking of Mr. Mallory when he 
said it, I’m quite sure. What do you think he 


meant?” . 

“Oh, Richard’s the most unpractical old dear in 

the world. And I don’t believe he’d think anyone 
good enough for you, Carina. I shouldn’t listen to 
Richard Grove if I were you, except when he gives 
you advice about your books.” 

It was very tactless of Richard to talk like that. 
Lady Murray felt seriously annoyed with him. 


CHAPTER IX 


M ALLORY was nowhere to be seen on the fol¬ 
lowing morning, nor had he overnight made 
any plans for amusing his guests, who were invited 
to remain at least until Wednesday at Linfold. 
Whether they did so or not must depend, Lady Mur¬ 
ray felt, upon the result of Jim’s inquiries into the 
conditions exacted to obtain the necessary dispensa¬ 
tion for a mixed marriage. Should there be any 
hitch, it would certainly be impossible to remain at 
Linfold, and the situation was already, in her opin¬ 
ion, quite awkward and embarrassing enough. Here 
were Jim and Carina not yet engaged but still seri¬ 
ously thinking of marrying each other, and she a 
guest in his house. 

Seeing her niece sitting in the garden under the 
shade of the great cedars on the lawn, she went out 
to join her. 

“Where’s Jim?” she asked. 

Carina looked up from her book. 

“I really don’t know. I haven’t seen him to-day. 
He went off quite early, but Sophia says he often 
goes into Lintown on Monday morning.” 

“Is he expected back to luncheon?” 

“He said nothing about what time he would be 
back. If you want to know anything more, you must 
ask Sophia!” 

“I really think we’d better decide to go back to 
town to-morrow, and not see Jim again while the 
whole thing is in abeyance.” 

“Very well, Aunt Nora. I’m sure I don’t want 
to stay here.” 


82 


CARINA 


83 


“That is nonsense. It’s delightful here, and we 
shall be simply baked in London.” Lady Murray 
looked regretfully at the distant blue line of sea, 
glimmering between the trees. “Of course, I know 
it’s a very trying position for you, my dear—this 
not knowing whether a man means to marry you or 
not.” 

“Thank you, darling Aunt Nora—I’m not worry¬ 
ing about it. It’s really, if you come to think of it, 
much more awkward for Mr. Mallory than for me. 
I shan’t break my heart if it comes to nothing, though 
I did give a sort of half promise yesterday.” 

Perhaps it had been a relief to her to have these 
few hours for further consideration of a matter of 
such enormous importance. She wanted solitude 
just then, much more than she wanted Jim. His 
presence would have been almost an intrusion. 

He did not return to luncheon, and they sat down 
to that meal without him. Lady Murray was per¬ 
plexed at his continued absence, but Carina accepted 
it with a kind of indolent indifference. Her aunt, 
always a reliable and fluent conversationalist, dis¬ 
coursed pleasantly upon neutral topics to Sophia 
Mallory. Carina was distraite , and ate little. She 
felt tolerably certain now, that Jim had gone to Lin- 
town to see a priest and perhaps to consult his 
lawyer. She wondered why her aunt and Sophia 
had failed to place this obvious interpretation upon 
his absence. The thought that even now he might 
be weighing the matter in the scales of prudence and 
love, made her feel restless. She had declared that 
her heart would not be broken if it came to nothing, 
but on the other hand she felt that if Jim went quite 
away out of her life, things would never seem exactly 
the same again. 

She was thankful when the meal was over and 
she could escape up to her room. She disliked the 


CARINA 


84 

feeling that Sophia was observing her narrowly, 
closely, with hard vigilant eyes. She felt like a 
child, when Sophia looked at her thus. She knew 
she was wondering what Jim could possibly see in 
her. 

A sort of anguish of impatience came over her, 
a desire at any rate to know the worst. No, his 
decision was no longer a matter of complete indiffer¬ 
ence to her. If he came to the conclusion that his 
only course was to stifle this love of his and take 
leave of her permanently, aghast at the barriers he 
must necessarily overpass in order to win her, she 
made up her mind that she would return to Rome. 
She had friends there, and it was an atmosphere 
peculiarly adapted to her work. There was a sug¬ 
gestion of exile about the life in Italy that bestowed 
a certain leisure, a certain freedom, too, in forming 
and arranging existence on pleasant lines. The 
thought was not without attraction. But would 
freedom ever seem quite so sweet a thing again? 
Something of its rare savor would surely have de¬ 
parted. . . . 

She shook herself free from those thoughts; they 
threatened to sap that high courage of hers. She 
sat by the window and gazed at the beautiful summer 
landscape outspread before her—the waving corn¬ 
fields, the dark shadows of the woods, the far blue 
line of sea. Northward the Downs lifting their bold 
outlines. 

Presently she saw a fine cloud of dust drifting 
along the road that ran to Lintown. In a few 
minutes Jim’s car turned in at the gates and came 
swiftly along the avenue toward the house. He was 
driving very, rapidly, almost as if he had been a 
messenger bringing important news. It was too far 
off, however, for her to catch a glimpse of his face. 

Carina trembled a little with excitement. Doubts 


CARINA 


85 


assailed her. She told herself that she was not the 
right wife for him, that she didn’t love him enough, 
that she could never make him happy. And yet 
the thought of losing him altogether, pierced her 
heart with something like sorrow. Perhaps half- 
unconsciously she was beginning to care for him, was 
suffering herself to be captured by those powerful 
hands, that dominating personality. She resisted the 
thought. She was so free, that the prospect of any 
kind of captivity was distasteful to her. 

A servant knocked at the door. “If you please, 
miss, her ladyship would like to speak to you in the 
library.” 

“Tell her I’m coming.” 

Carina rose, glanced at herself in the mirror, and 
went downstairs. It was unlike Lady Murray not to 
come and seek her in her room. Probably, however, 
Jim was there too, and wished her aunt to be present 
at this—perhaps the final—interview. But when she 
opened the door of the library, she saw that Jim was 
alone. He was standing near the window, holding 
some letters in his hand. 

“Isn’t Aunt Nora here? She sent a message that 
she wanted to speak to me.” 

“She’s gone out in the garden with Sophia. . .” 

“I must go and find her,” said Carina. 

Jim took her hand and held it. “No—it was I 
who wanted you,” he said. “She sent up that mes¬ 
sage because I asked her to.” He looked down at 
Carina’s white troubled face under its shining mass 
of clipped red-gold hair. 

She was beautiful and bewildering. She had made 
a slave of him. For her sake he was going to do 
mad things that would have a dreadful permanence. 
But he could not let her go, spurred as he was to 
do so by the vision of his own imprudence, his own 
folly. Even now, he only feared to lose her. 


86 


CARINA 


While he held her hand thus, he felt that he could 
face all possibilities for her sake. 

“Carina, I’ve been into Lintown to-day and I’ve 
seen the priest.” 

“Yes?” 

“He told me exactly what I should have to pro¬ 
mise before you could obtain a dispensation for 
making a mixed marriage.” 

She was silent. Mallory had emerged from that 
interview with a passionate and bitter resentment 
against the priest who had told him in perfectly plain 
language what would be expected of him, as well as 
against the Catholic Church, the Vatican, the whole 
world of Papal influence. He had the feeling too 
that he had come into contact with something of 
immovable, adamantine quality. Something stronger, 
more powerful than himself. Something that would 
engulf the very children that might be born to him. 
Something that was not of a day nor of an hour, but 
could stretch its rights into the far future, influenc- 
ing perhaps countless lives that were as yet unborn. 
He had been forced to envisage this tremendous 
power for the first time. And knowing nothing 
of its. holiness, its divinely appointed preroga¬ 
tives, its spiritual beauty, its irrefragable Truth 
carried white and unstained through the ages, 
through nearly two thousand years of triumphant 
dhangelessness, its secure means to lead men to future 
salvation and eternal happiness—knowing nothing of 
all these things, Jim Mallory saw in it only some¬ 
thing cruel and violent in its sway, that forced even 
an outsider like himself to yield to its mandates. 

When he left the Presbytery he told himself that 
to make such sacrifices,. to agree to such conditions, 
were for him morally impossible actions. He had 
no ri^ht to make such promises on behalf of innocent 
unborn children. It was his clear duty to banish the 


CARINA 


37 


thought of this marriage from his mind, and never 
willingly to see Carina again when once she had left 
Linfold. She had been right and wise to leave him 
perfectly free. She had foreseen his difficulties, per¬ 
haps she had even realized that she couldn’t expect 
him to make such sacrifices for her. And then, sud¬ 
denly, as he had walked away down the street toward 
the garage where he had left his car, he seemed to 
see Carina’s face uplifted toward his own. He loved 
her, he couldn’t let her go. He would prom¬ 
ise .... anything .... He was only 
afraid that she might even now refuse to marry 
him. . . . 

When she came into the room, looking very calm 
and tranquil, as if unconscious of the fierce struggle 
that was only now ceasing to be waged within him, 
all desire to continue the conflict left him. He held 
out his arms. 

“I’m ready to promise everything,” he said. “Will 
you be my wife, Carina?” 

His arms were round her now; he drew her close 
to his breast. 

“Yes,” said Carina. 

The engagement was announced without delay, to 
Lady Murray and Sophia. The one was genuinely 
delighted, congratulating herself upon having so suc¬ 
cessfully engineered the whole business from start 
to finish. The other was much less enthusiastic, and 
while coldly polite to the aunt and niece, allowed 
herself to tell Jim curtly in private, that “she hoped 
he knew what he was doing.” Jim, who knew it 
only too well, was annoyed at being thus reminded 
of his imprudence by Sophia. Her words gave his 
already sore conscience a hard stab. The bitter little 
struggle had left its mark.upon him; his gaiety had 
vanished; he was very serious indeed. 


88 


CARINA 


U I wonder what Peter will say, pursued Sophia. 

The brother and sister were sitting alone in the 
drawing-room before dinner. It was the first op¬ 
portunity Sophia had had of speaking to him alone. 

“I’m not in the habit of asking Peter’s permis¬ 
sion,” said Jim, frowning. 

“No, I suppose not. But you’ve always encour¬ 
aged him to give his opinion much too freely. I 
always thought it was very injudicious! When do 
you intend to be married, Jim?” 

“That rests with Miss Ramsden. We haven t dis¬ 
cussed dates yet. But I hope it will be as soon as 
possible—in a few weeks. There’s nothing to wait 
for.” 

His heavy black brows almost met across his 

f 3. Qg 

“You know each other so little, that I don’t think 
it would do either of you any harm to wait,” said 
Sophia. 

She was three years older than Jim, and was the 
only person in the world who dared to advise him 
or remonstrate with him. 

Jim had never shrunk so from her frankness as he 
did that evening. He felt that she was going to tell 
him it was very wrong of him to marry a Roman 
Catholic, and promise that his children—if there 
were any—should be brought up in their mother’s 
Faith. 

It seemed to him that he was doomed to tread a 
path of sharp swords to gain Carina, and he was 
already being wounded sorely enough in the process 
without any remonstrance from Sophia. 

But it was worth it, he told himself now, when he 
thought of that moment when he had held out his 
arms to Carina, and she had come close to him and 
he had kissed her. 

Sophia rose and went to the window. 


CARINA 


89 


“It’s all been so very precipitate,” she said, in her 
pleasant bass voice, “that I hope the proverb won’t 
be fulfilled in your case. Miss Ramsden may look 
like a child, but she’s a spoilt child and a wilful child, 
or I never saw one. And you won’t find her nearly 
so easy to manage as poor little Iris!” 

Jim was fortunately spared the trouble of utter¬ 
ing the angry reply that rose to his lips, for at that 
moment Lady Murray and Carina came into the 
room. 

“We are going back to town to-morrow,” Lady 
Murray announced, “so you’ll let us have the car 
early, won’t you, Jim?” 

His face fell. “Oh, I hoped you’d stay on,” he 
said, looking at Carina. 

Peter would be away for at least another week, 
and he did not relish the idea of a tete-a-tete with 
Sophia under the circumstances. She would never let 
him forget the folly and imprudence he was about 
to commit. And it would be hateful without 
Carina! . . 

He must have a talk with Lady Murray alone 
and see if he could not induce her to change her 
mind and postpone their departure for a few days. 


CHAPTER X 


ADY MURRAY was obdurate upon the matter 
of their immediate departure from Linfold. Jim 
could come up and stay with them in a few days if 
he liked. But they had to make plans for the summer, 
and there was no time to be lost. 

Jim remonstrated. Why couldn’t they spend the 
summer at Linfold? Why must Carina go away at 
all? He wanted to be married as soon as possible 
—'the first week in September. There was simply 
nothing to wait for. . . . 

Lady Murray was unmoved by these appeals. 

“You can’t possibly be married until after Peter’s 
holidays,” she reminded him. “Why don’t you take 
him to Norway as you thought of doing? If Carina 
is to be married as soon as October, she will have 
a great deal to do.” 

“As soon as^ October?” he repeated gloomily. 
“Why, that is simply ages! I wanted to have it in 
September.” 

In the rapid survey of his plans he had set his 
son ruthlessly on one side. Peter could stay at Lin¬ 
fold with Sophia. Or he could pay visits—he often 
went to Scotland with one of his friends. Mallory 
had never kept him tied to his side all through the 

summer holidays. There was no reason why this 
year— 

“Well, in any case Carina couldn’t be ready by 
September,” said Lady Murray. 

There was nothing left but to approach Carina 
herself, which he did early the next morning, follow- 

90 



CARINA 91 

ing her into the garden directly she appeared after 
breakfast. 

September. ... It must really be in Septem¬ 
ber. He couldn’t wait a day longer than the first 
week in September. . . 

Carina was slightly astonished at his impetuosity. 
She herself would have been quite content to wait a 
year before marrying Jim. When she had promised 
to be his wife, the thought that he would wish the 
marriage to take place almost immediately had never 
occurred to her. 

“Your aunt says it’s impossible—that you’ll have 
so much to do. You had much better make up your 
mind to do it after we’re married. You can get all 
the frocks and hats you want afterward. . . 

His face wore a tormented look. 

“Aunt Nora is quite right,” said Carina, who had 
discussed the whole question with her aunt before 
retiring to bed on the preceding night. “It can’t 
possibly take place before October, if then. I’d 
rather wait till next spring myself.” 

“Next spring!” His tone suggested both incre¬ 
dulity and dismay. 

“And then you said you were going to take Peter 
to Norway this summer!” 

“But that’s all off. I shouldn’t dream of going 
there now!” 

“Won’t Peter be disappointed?” 

“You mustn’t expect me to consult Peter’s feelings 
now.” 

“But don’t you see,” said Carina very quietly, 
“that you ought to consult them more than ever, 
because things will never be quite the same for him 
again? You must make his last holidays alone with 
you very, very happy ones.” 

“Must I?” But the sombre look passed, and he 
was able to smile. 


92 


CARINA 


“I shouldn’t give up Norway if I were you. I’m 
going to make Aunt Nora come with me to a very 
quiet little place in Cornwall. So you wouldn’t see 
me in any case. . . .” 

“Not see you? All the summer?” he demanded. 

“Well, probably not all through this month and 
September. In October we shall be back in London.” 

“Do you mean that I shan’t see you for two 
months?” asked Mallory. 'He stared at her in re¬ 
proachful astonishment. 

“But afterward, Jim, you’ll see me for such ages 
and ages!” 

“Carina, I don’t believe you care a hang about 
me!” 


“But I’ve promised to marry you. Isn’t that a 
proof?” 

“But your banishing me like this!” 

“I think I want to be alone—quite alone. Aunt 
Nora doesn’t count—we’re so accustomed to each 
other. I want to think things over. It’s all been so 
sudden.” 

“But surely you’ll let me run down and see you 
when you’re in Cornwall? Cornwall isn’t the end 
of the world!” 

“I’d rather you didn’t. Go to Norway with 
Peter. . . . And, Jim—” 

“Yes, Carina?” 

She put out her hand and touched his. 

“Be very kind to Peter,” she said softly. “This 
is going to hurt him, you know.” 

Jim was silent. She was right, and he knew it, 
but she should not wish or expect him to be un¬ 
selfish just now. It argued such a lack of enthusiasm 
on her part to go and bury herself in Cornwall in 
this way, endeavoring at the same time to banish 
him to Norway.. They could have spent the summer 
so happily at Linfold together, with Lady Murray, 


CARINA 


93 


He had hoped for some assistance from Carina, but 
alas, she was just as decisive as her aunt upon the 
subject. 

He went with them to Lintown, saw them off in 
the train, and promised to come up for a few days 
on the following Friday. 

Fortunately for his peace of mind, he never 
guessed that the Cornwall plan had emanated entire¬ 
ly from Carina’s brain. She must snatch these last 
few weeks of liberty and leisure to finish a book 
begun last winter. Richard must release her from 
her promise to rest for a couple of months; he would 
certainly be reasonable when he learned of the 
change in her prospects. 

Carina said nothing of this intention to Mallory. 
She rightly divined that he didn’t care about her 
work, and with keen intuition she had discerned the 
fact that he preferred not to hear too much about 
the novels. 

“Don’t mention it to Jim,” said Carina to her aunt 
after the train had started. “But I do so want these 
two months to myself so that I may finish my book. 
You know, I haven’t touched it since last winter. 
But if I work hard I can easily finish it in two 
months. As long,” and she smiled, “as Jim doesn’t 
take it into his head to come down. That’s partly 
why I urged him so to go to Norway.” 

“You are singularly free from sentiment,” said 
Lady Murray, with a touch of asperity. “Most 
women at such a time wouldn’t have thought about 
their work.” 

“I wish I could forget it!” said Carina impulsively. 
“You know, it’s my master now, not my servant. I 
believe I should be ill if anything prevented me from 
writing when I wanted to!” 

“In the future I hope you will realize you will 
only have one master,” said Lady Murray. 


94 


CARINA 


Carina flushed a little. She was somewhat afraid 
of envisaging that fact too closely. She knew this 
humble, pleading phase of Jim’s couldn’t possibly 
last. There would come a time when his iron will 
would assert itself. She thought it unkind of Lady 
Murray to remind her of that just now. 

Lady Murray looked at her niece. Such a strange, 
brilliant, gifted creature, yet how unlike the normal 
woman who had just become engaged to be married! 
She ought to be thinking of Jim now to the exclu¬ 
sion of almost everything else, and yet she was 
deliberately putting him and his concerns on one side 
for at least two months. Sending him off to Norway 
with Peter in this high-handed fashion. It was 
enough to complete the disillusionment of a sensitive 
man! She wondered a little that Jim had submitted 
so tamely. But there it was—he wasn’t sure of 
Carina. Where was the iron will which had ground 
down his first wife into hysterical submission accord¬ 
ing to the approved legend? There was no trace of 
it ^ this meek yielding man. He must be despe¬ 
rately in love, and desperately afraid of losing 
Carina! And the little minx was perfectly conscious 
of her own power. . . . 


They took a furnished cottage in Cornwall, near 
the sea. It stood in a retired situation in its own 
garden,. where palms and subtropical plants flour¬ 
ished with unusual success. From the south windows 
they could see the great island shape of St. Michael’s 
Mount, and the low shore stretching away beyond 
Penzance to Newlyn. There was a little summer¬ 
house in the garden, and Carina’s first work was to 
furnish it as a study, and here she wrote diligently 
from morning to night. She went to Mass early in 
Penzance almost every day, though Lady Murray 
considered the walk too long for her, especially as 


CARINA 


95 


she was fasting at that hour. But Carina clung to the 
practice of her religion in those days, as perhaps she 
had never done before. It may have been that she 
wished to strengthen herself for those coming days 
when it would be far more difficult for her to practice 
it at all. 7 here was no Catholic church within easy 
reach of Linfold. Lintown was eight miles away, and 
she would have to go in the car. Perhaps some day 
she would be able to persuade Jim to let her have a 
chapel in the house. She had often thought how 
beautiful it would be to start a Mission somewhere 
in England, to light a lamp before a new Tabernacle 
where since the days of the Reformation none had 
ever burned before! There was something entranc¬ 
ing to Carina about this idea; she let her mind dwell 
upon it. Jim, loving her, would learn also to love 
what was so dear to her. He would not deny her 
anything that w T as necessary for her happiness. The 
fact that he was so ready to make the promises 
exacted from him seemed to indicate a lack of pre¬ 
judice on his part that augured well for the future. 
Linfold would be perfect when it had a dhapel. . . 

Carina was a very industrious worker when the fit 
was on her; the spells of intervening idleness—never 
so very long in her case—seemed to prepare her for 
an outburst of fierce, concentrated energy. Lady 
Murray, who had never before seen her niece at 
work, was often astonished at the tireless industry 
she displayed. But this new knowledge served to 
diminish her hopeful view of the marriage. Jim 
would certainly dislike to see his wife periodically 
immersed in oceans of ink! Didn’t Stevenson say 
that authors should never marry, adducing excellent 
reasons in support of this theory? Didn’t Mrs. 
Carlyle complain of her spouse that he was “gey ill to 
live wi’?” This unrestrained and passionate absorp¬ 
tion seemed to augur less than well for the future 



96 


CARINA 


conjugal peace of Linfold. Lady Murray had her 
moments of feeling an excessive compassion for Jim 
Mallory. And he wouldn’t be likely to put his foot 
down. He was weak with Carina. He wasn’t sure 
of her. . . . Poor Jim! . . . 

Jim was in Norway with Peter. They were fish¬ 
ing, and enjoying themselves—at least Peter was— 
immensely. He wrote regularly. Carina’s answers 
were necessarily brief. From Mallory’s point of 
view her letters were decidedly unsatisfactory. They 
showed signs of haste, of preoccupation. He re¬ 
turned to England just before the close of Peter’s 
holidays, and as soon as possible travelled down to 
Cornwall without saying a word to Carina of his 
advent. He felt that he must see her. He didn’t 
care if he were welcome or not. Anything was better 
than to risk being told categorically not to come. 

Lady Murray had made plans for leaving Corn¬ 
wall on the last day of September. She and Carina 
were to proceed to Paris almost at once to buy 
clothes. Most of the trousseau had been ordered 
before they left for the country. Only the actual 
dresses were to be left to the last, as by that time 
the autumn fashions would have declared them¬ 
selves. 

Lady Murray was giving Carina her trousseau, 
so that her wishes in the matter had to be consulted. 

The day of Jim’s unexpected appearance was very 
wet. Carina had carried her work up to her bed¬ 
room, and was engaged in correcting side by side the 
typed copies of her new novel,—a process that 
she always found particularly arduous and trying. 
It was.nearly.finished, but she was feeling exhausted 
and slightly irritable, from the strenuous effort in¬ 
volved. 

The truth.was, that she had been working against 
time, cramming the work of six months into less than 


CARINA 


97 


tvvo. The strain had told upon her, and sleepless 
nights had washed all the color from her cheeks and 
painted bluish shadows under her eyes. Lady Mur¬ 
ray had just been congratulating herself that Jim 
couldn’t see her niece in that state, when he was an¬ 
nounced. 

Carina went reluctantly downstairs. She had for¬ 
gotten to brush her hair, and it was slightly dishev¬ 
elled. There were little stains of ink on her fingers. 
She looked worn out, yet with the visible content¬ 
ment of accomplishment upon her. 

It came into her mind then with a sort of dismay 
that Jim, standing there large and powerful before 
her, didn’t seem half so real to her as the imaginary 
persons of the little drama she had just completed. 

His attitude was reproachful. She saw that she 
would have to confess how the two months had been 
spent. 

“Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?” 

They were alone, Lady Murray having judged 
it better to depart When her niece appeared. 

“Because I was afraid you’d tell me not to,” said 
Jim. 

“I certainly should have. I’m still tremendously 
busy.” 

“Busy? What on earth can you find to do in this 
dead-alive hole? And in such a muggy climate too!” 

There was a hint of jealous suspicion in his man¬ 
ner. Carina perceiving it hastened to allay it. 

“I’ve been finishing my book.” 

His relief was quite comically apparent. “You’ve 
been writing, then, all this time? No wonder your 
letters were so short! But why didn’t you tell me?” 

“I had an idea you didn’t care about it,” said 
Carina frankly, “but I’m too much of a business 
woman not to finish what I’ve begun. And, besides, 
I’d promised my publishers this book before the end 


98 


CARINA 


of the year. I wasn’t sure I should have time to do 
it after we were married.” 

“I shall hope not, indeed,” said Mallory. “And 
my darling, do remember there’s no earthly need for 
you to work now. You look like a ghost—I’m sure 
it’s very bad for you.” 

“Oh, I’m always like this When I’ve just about 
finished. You shouldn’t have come for another week, 
Jim. I’ve been rather rushed, and Richard hasn’t 
been through it yet. I wrote to him yesterday to 
say it would be finished soon.” 

“Do you mean you’re going to let him read it?” 

“Oh, yes—I thought you knew. He always goes 
through my books with a blue pencil!” She made a 
little grimace. 

Mallory was ignorant of the strain involved by 
imaginative effort of a prolonged and sustained kind. 
He could only see its present effects upon Carina, 
and he resented the fact that she should have re¬ 
duced herself to this white and exhausted condi¬ 
tion. 

“I hope to goodness your contract is fulfilled and 
that I shan’t have you looking like this again.” His 
tone was very possessive, as if he already had the 
right to exercise authority over her. 

“Yes—this contract for three books is finished. I 
expect Swaine will want to make another if this 
is a success.” 

Mallory was silent for a moment. But he was 
wise enough to see that Carina was just then ab¬ 
sorbed in her work and career as a novelist. When 
once she was his wife it would be easier to eliminate 
that restless ambition of hers from her life. She 
would have other duties, he reflected, such as inevit¬ 
ably fall to the lot of a woman whose husband is 
the possessor of large estates. Linfold Park was 
to be restored to its ancient brilliancy and splendor. 


CARINA 


99 


Carina would have little time and, he hoped, little 
inclination for the production of novels. 

“Well, don’t be in a hurry to undertake fresh ob¬ 
ligations,” he said. “You want a long rest, Carina. 
And I shouldn’t like it, you know, if you were to 
shut yourself up for weeks at a time to finish a book 
after we’re married.” 

“I thought that perhaps at first you mightn’t like 
it,” she admitted. 

She wondered if Jim would make very heavy de¬ 
mands upon her time. Yet, surely, many married 
women had written novels, without neglecting or 
estranging their husbands. There was Mrs. Gaskell, 
for instance. . . . But then there was also 

Charlotte Bronte, who in the nine months of her 
married life had found leisure only in which to ac¬ 
complish a few pages. Arthur Nicholls hadn’t liked 
his wife to write. ... It was as a woman, not 
as a novelist, that he had loved her. . . . When, 
however, she remembered the episode of his stand¬ 
ing, shaking and crying at the gate of Haworth 
Parsonage one night, because he wasn’t allowed to 
marry Charlotte,. Carina was inclined to think that 
Mrs. Nieholls might have exercised her undoubted 
influence to better effect. 

“How is Peter?” she asked suddenly. 

“Oh, Peter’s very fit, thanks. He went back to 
Eton yesterday.” 

“He knows, of course?” 

“Yes. I told him directly we got back from 
Norway.” He had kept silence on the subject until 
then, not wishing to spoil the boy’s holidays by a 
premature disclosure of matrimonial plans. 

“Does he mind very much, Jim?” she asked anx¬ 
iously. 

Jim frowned so that his heavy black brows met 
across his face. 






IOO 


CARINA 


“If he does, the sooner he learns not to, the better 
for his own sake,” he observed. 

“I hope you were—kind to him?” 

“Yes—if you really wish to know—I was very 
kind.” 

“I’m glad of that. For you see, Jim, I’ve been 
thinking about it a great deal, and I’ve made up 
my mind to try and win Peter’s affection. I don’t 
want him to feel less dear because of me, but more 
dear.” 

I’ve made up my mind to try and win Peter’s affec¬ 
tion. . . . Jim could not imagine why those 

words of Carina’s, uttered with all her unconscious 
sweetness, should yet strike so ominously upon his 
ear. She was aware perhaps of her power to subdue, 
and she was going to use this power deliberately to 
bring Peter to her feet. And then? . . . All 

his old fears concerning Peter rushed back to him. 
What if she used that very power to influence and 
proselytize? He himself had come under Carina’s 
spell, had learned what it could mean, a subtle potent 
thing against which he had struggled in vain. Peter, 
for all his manliness, his proficiency in games, his 
inherited sporting proclivities, was a sensitive boy 
of ardent and susceptible temperament. His hatred 
of Carina—for it amounted at present to actual 
hatred—might change into the dogged devotion, the 
sentimental hero-worship of the adolescent. He 
might yield himself up to the spell as completely as 
his father had done, and follow whithersoever 
Carina beckoned. That was not what Jim wished 
to bring about. He desired no intimacy between 
these two; he feared Carina’s spiritual ascendancy 
far too much for that. He only asked of Peter 
perfect courtesy and friendliness where his young 
stepmother was concerned. And he was prepared, 
if that courtesy were not soon forthcoming, to en- 


CARINA 


IOI 


force it by sharp physical measures. But he did not 
want Carina to win Peter’s affection, Peter’s love. 
There was a tinge of jealousy as well as of anxiety 
in Jim’s attitude. The boy was wholly his; he could 
permit no interference where his training of him was 
concerned. Peter’s devotion must continue to be 
concentrated upon himself, a devotion mixed with 
wholesome fear. He was averse to the thought that 
any part of it should be deflected by Carina. These 
two persons must occupy, so to speak, separate com¬ 
partments in his own life. Intimacy between them 
was not desirable. 

But Jim’s great fear was that Carina might at¬ 
tempt to convert Peter to her own religion. That 
was the worst contingency of all; it seemed to Mall¬ 
ory that there was something truly unbearable in 
the thought. . . . 

Coming back to her after two months’ absence, he 
felt that her hold over him was ten times stronger, 
her appeal ten times more irresistible, than these had 
been when they parted. He realized their effect 
with a kind of dismay. She influenced him to such 
an extent that his love triumphed over his judgment 
at every turn. To win her, he was prepared to give 
those safeguards demanded by her Church for the 
benefit of children yet unborn. He was exposing 
Peter at a highly susceptible age to a dangerous, 
powerful, spiritual influence. Already he was form¬ 
ing plans to counteract that influence, to watch his 
son lest he should show signs of succumbing to it, 
just as he was planning to restrain Carina from 
literary work after her marriage. Yet there was 
a quality in her love for him which, he felt, would 
militate against all his efforts to restrain or mold 
her. She loved him, he truly believed, but it was 
love of a very sober kind. It had nothing of the 
trembling worship of Iris’s love during the first years 


102 


CARINA 


of their married life. And because of that some¬ 
thing lacking in Carina’s love, Jim felt she would 
always contrive to get her own way, and that he 
would inevitably show a weak soft side to her. It 
was only when he thought of Peter that his will, in 
imagination, asserted itself. . . . 

He was certainly not going to have any nonsense 
with Peter. He was prepared to be kind and just, 
but he would treat any disposition to run after 
strange gods with the maximum of severity. Carina 
would surely desist when she saw that it meant 
trouble for Peter. . . . 

“I’m sure Peter will be all right directly he knows 
you, Carina,” he said, dismissing these uncomfort¬ 
able reflections from his mind, “but you mustn’t 
expect me to stand too much from him. I suppose 
he’s getting to a troublesome age.” 

“I feel,” said Carina, “that one can’t be kind and 
loving enough to children. They’re so inexperi¬ 
enced, so bewildered, so easily hurt.” 

“Yes, my dear, that’s all very well, but Peter isn’t 
a child. He’s nearly fifteen, and in some ways he’s 
old for his age.” 

“Most only sons would feel having a stepmother 
at first.” 

“Yes. I realize that. You mustn’t think I’m a 
brute to Peter. Most people think I spoil him. 
Let’s go out, Carina. It isn’t raining, and I want 
to look at your view. It’s years since I was down 
in this part of the world.” 

They stepped out into the moist garden where the 
great hydrangea bushes still showed a profusion of 
blossom, white, pink, and delphinium-blue. There 
were hedges of fuchsia and veronica, tall palms, 
masses of scarlet geranium, bushes of camellia and 
myrtle, and great clumps of Michaelmas daisies. 


CARINA 


103 

Between the trees Mount’s Bay showed its line of 
gleaming silver. 

Carina wore no hat, and the light wind from the 
sea ruffled her thick, short, heavy hair. She was 
dressed very simply in a grey cotton frock that hung 
loosely about her figure. 

“You’re much too pale. You shouldn’t work so 
hard. And it isn’t as if there were any real neces¬ 
sity,” said Jim. 

“But I don’t work only for the money, though 
once that was very useful. I work because I love 
it.” Her grey-green eyes shone. “And then I simply 
had to finish. A few days in bed will set me up com- 

Pletely” . • , 

“Oh, I was hoping to persuade you to come back 
with me to Linfold for a bit. I do miss you so much, 
Carina.” 

“It wouldn’t be possible now, Jim. You see, per¬ 
haps Richard may come over on Saturday to run 
through the book. I’m expecting an answer from 
him. And then I positively must rest for a few 
days. I couldn’t always manage it in Mary’s life¬ 
time, though I felt the need of it terribly, and that’s 
why the strain was so great.” She paused. “And 
then we’re going over to Paris to buy things. You 
wouldn’t like a dowdy wife, would you, Jim?” 

“You look topping as you are. I’ve never seen 
you in grey before. You ought always to wear 
it. . . . Shall you be ready by the middle of 

October, Carina?” 

“Oh, not nearly. Wouldn’t November do, Jim?” 

“No, it wouldn’t,” he said; “I’m not going to wait 
a day longer than October. About a month from 
now. . . .” 

“Very well,” she said. “Isn’t St. Michad’s Mount 
looking lovely to-day?” 


104 


CARINA 


“Very lovely. . . . Have you thought about 

a church yet?” 

“Oh, the Oratory, of course. I always go there.” 

Jim fixed his eyes upon the bay. It was silver in 
the sunlight, flat and shining, like a polished shield. 
Its surface was scarcely wrinkled. The sails of some 
fishing-boats hung there quite motionlessly. The 
Mount rose grim, abrupt, massive from the water. 

The Oratory. ... Ah, there it was again, 
like a knife leaping up to strike him. Peter would 
of course want to be there. 

“Do you like this place? Have you been happy 
here?” he asked. 

“Very happy. I’m always happy when I’m work¬ 
ing,” she answered. 

“But soon—you’ll have other kinds of happiness.” 

“Yes,” she assented. 

He took her hand and held it. She had never 
seemed so far away—so little his. Even this touch 
of her brought her no nearer. She was like a deli¬ 
cious elfin thing, strayed out of another sphere, who 
had captured him against all the suggestions of rea¬ 
son, experience, and prudence. 

It was hateful—this subtle mistrust of her, coupled 
with an adoration that possessed him utterly. Some¬ 
thing of his very fear seemed to communicate itself 
to her, for she said suddenly: 

“Jim—you’ve had time to think it all well over. 
Are you sure you’re not making a mistake? I’m 
so unlike the woman you must have imagined you 
would one day marry.” 

“Yes, you are different. Perhaps that’s why I love 
you so much.” 

“You might want to change me . . . and it 

wouldn’t be easy, Jim.” 

“No—I shall never want to change you.” He 
spoke with a strange emotion. To-day’s visit had 


CARINA 


105 


sealed forever his love for her. She was more 
beautiful, more lovable, than she had been in all 
his dreams of her. For better or for worse, he was 
going through with this marriage. 

“Pm sure tea must be ready. Shall we go in, 
Jim?” 

He followed her into the house. 


CHAPTER XI 


ARINA led the way back into the small panelled 
drawing-room where they found Lady Murray. 

“I’ve just had a telegram from Richard. He 
wants to come for the week-end.” 

She handed the orange-colored envelope to her 
niece, who glanced at its contents. 

“How perfect!” she said; “I did so want to see 
him. I’ve felt more uncertain about this book than 
any I’ve ever written.” 

Mallory, seated with his back to the light, stirred 
restlessly. His brow was black as thunder. So she 
wanted Grove to come, and she had never expressed 
the slightest wish that he himself should visit her. 
She had never invited him to come, but she had 
invited Grove. She wanted his advice. He was to 
be permitted to look at her work. To judge it good 
or bad or merely indifferent. In this matter of her 
work Richard obviously enjoyed her complete con¬ 
fidence. Mallory could hardly conceal his jealous 
resentment of this intellectual intimacy. 

Carina gave him a cup of tea. 

“Milk and sugar? But of course I know! Lots 
of both. . . .” She smiled at him. 

Mallory said curtly: “Thanks.” He took the cup 
from her hand. 

His face was rigid. He had the feeling, as he 
had often had before, that he was seeing Carina for 
the first time, and under anew aspect that fascinated 
him even while it made him furious. How her face 
had brightened as she read that telegram! She was 

106 


CARINA 


107 


overjoyed at the prospect of seeing Grove. But it 
was surely ridiculous of him to feel so violently-, 
savagely jealous of Grove! An absurd person who 
wore impossible collars and ties, and seemed se¬ 
renely unaware of the fact. It had annoyed Mall¬ 
ory, even on the night of that now historic dinner¬ 
party, to observe the complacency of Grove, his 
perfect ease, his swift intelligent answers, his calm 
consciousness of fame. A classic in his own lifetime! 
But who read him now? Only the literary and the 
curious. And he was coming'here for the week-end 
to go through Carina’s book! . . . 

The telephone bell rang. Carina rose and went 
out of the room. Lady Murray turned to Jim and 
said: 

“It’s a most fortunate thing that Richard could 
spare the time to come just now—he’s always so 
busy! You know, he thinks all the world of Carina’s 
work—he ‘believes she has a great future. He 
trained her himself when she was quite young.” 

Mallory stirred restlessly in his chair. 

“I’m hoping that Carina as my wife won’t have 
much time for writing novels. There’ll be no need 
for her to work now, thank heaven!” 

“Oh, but she loves it, and she’s such an industri¬ 
ous little person, she’s sure to find time somehow,” 
said Lady Murray, pleasantly. She was quite un¬ 
aware of Jim’s attitude toward the matter. “And 
when there’s a gift—a creative gift—money be¬ 
comes a secondary consideration. 1 don’t deny that 
in Mary’s lifetime it was a very important one for 
Carina. That last book did show signs of stress 
and fatigue—it would have been a wonder if it 
hadn’t, considering the poor child could snatch so 
little sleep at ni^ht. All the same, Richard was 
very angry with her.” 

“What right had he to be angry?” demanded 



io8 


CARINA 


Jim, with ill-suppressed passion. 

Lady Murray was slightly startled. 

“Oh, only the right of a master who sees his favor¬ 
ite pupil fall below her own high standard,” she said, 
in unconscious imitation of Grove’s own words. 

“Well, this master and pupil business will have to 
stop when Carina’s married.” Jim’s voice was sullen 
but determined. “I shan’t care to have elderly men¬ 
tors hanging about Linfold scolding her!” 

“Oh, but you mustn’t forget that he was a very 
old friend of her father’s. My brother Alfred, you 
know—such a delightful whimsical creature !—was 
devoted to him.” 

This parenthetical description of Carina’s father 
left Mallory cold. His mind was desperately and 
disquietingly occupied with Grove. Carina’s half 
filial and wholly admiring attitude toward this gro¬ 
tesque elderly person annoyed him unspeakably. 
They could meet, too, on ground where he perceived 
it would be almost impossible for himself and Car¬ 
ina to meet without danger of quarrelling. 

“But I’m sure you’ll always find Carina ready to 
do exactly as you wish, Jim,” said Lady Murray. 
“Of course you mustn’t forget—especially at first— 
how free from control she’s been for many years. 
But when she’s fond of anyone, she’ll do simply any¬ 
thing for them.” 

Jim smiled; he was slightly mollified by this aspect 
of the case. Lady Mairray seemed so comfortingly 
assured that Carina was fond of him. 

“There are several things I shall want her to do 
for me,” he said, “but I’ll try not to spring them all 
upon her at first. I’m afraid she may feel having 
less freedom with me than she *had before. But I’ll 
do my best to make her happy. I want her to be 
very happy,” he added almost passionately. 

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll make her happy, Jim. It’s 


CARINA 


109 


just what I’ve always wanted for her—that she 
should be happily married to someone she really 
cared for.” 

Carina came back into the room, her cheeks 
flushed, her eyes shining. 

“It was Richard,” she said; “he’s at Falmouth, 
staying with Norman Malcolmson—they’re collab¬ 
orating over a play. And he’ll be here in time for 
lunch on Saturday.” 

“I wish he would bring Mr. Malcolmson too. Such 
a witty creature!” observed Lady Murray. 

“Oh, well, he could hardly do that. Our time’s 
so short as it is—we shall have to work hard.” She 
turned to Jim, unconscious of his slowly returning 
anger. “You know, I have to be very careful after 
Love among the Ruins. Richard told me I’d taken 
some of the oldest and most worn-out puppets out 
of the most banal of boxes, and peopled my book 
with them. I cried at the time!” 

“I daresay he was quite wrong!” said Mallory, 
in a loud, violent tone. “I don’t suppose he’s any 
judge of modern work. He’s quite a Victorian. I 
wonder anyone can listen to a man who makes him¬ 
self such a grotesque object!” 

Both women were startled. Carina, who had had 
no inkling of his jealous resentment of Grove’s in¬ 
fluence, flushed up to the roots of her hair. She felt 
almost as if Jim had struck her. . . . But the 

flush died away, leaving her paler than before. She 
did not answer, and the uncomfortable little pause 
that followed, produced an almost sinister impres¬ 
sion upon her. 

“Carina’s been brought up on Richard’s writings,” 
said Lady Murray, who was the first to recover her 
self-possession. “And we—who know him so wed, 
Jim, and are aware of his greatness, has nobility, his 
kindness—well, we don’t think about his appearance 


IIO 


CARINA 


or his strange clothes.” 

“You see, we are all hero-worshipers,” said 
Carina, in a low tone. 

She had never seen Jim Mallory angry before, and 
all that she had heard of his treatment of Iris, com¬ 
bined with what he had himself told her of that treat¬ 
ment as well as of his severity toward Peter, rose 
up to her mind now in fierce testimony against him. 
She had felt afraid of him at that moment—an un¬ 
pleasant experience, and one she did not wish to re¬ 
peat. Her pleasure in Grove’s coming was smirched 
and soiled. She had been suddenly made aware 
of the fact that Richard’s promised visit was wholly 
inacceptable to Jim. Perhaps he was jealous of 
this old family friend. Perhaps he was angry 
because Richard encouraged her in her work. She 
felt that it would be more than ever necessary to 
keep that work in the background, never permitting 
it to obtrude.. And then perhaps later on Jim 
wouldn’t mind it so much. . . . 

Jim stayed to dinner, and then announced 'that he 
was going on to St. Ives to stay with a friend. He 
had come in the car, and St. Ives was but a short 
distance away. He hadn’t intended, he explained, to 
trespass upon Lady Murray’s hospitality, and to 
invite himself for the night. 

It was at once a relief and a disappointment to 
Carina to learn that he was to leave them so soon. 
When her first astonishment at his unexpected ar¬ 
rival had subsided, she had felt pleasure in his com¬ 
pany, was even very glad to see him again. But his 
outburst of temper had alarmed her. It had made 
her for the moment sharply regret her engagement. 
It seemed to blight and wither her affection for him. 
Perhaps her first instinct had been the right one. She 
ought never to have promised to marry him—she 
didn t care for him enough. Aimer Rest tout par - 


CARINA 


111 


donner —and she hadn‘t found it easy to forgive 
those furious, contemptuous words of his when he 
had spoken of Grove. He had seemed to her then 
both jealous and petty. 

Mallory was moodily absent-minded. He had re¬ 
covered from his anger, and now felt miserably 
ashamed of the outburst. He was afraid too of its 
effect upon Carina. The day had been ruined by this 
prospective intrusion of Grove. . . . 

It was soon after nine o’clock when he sent for 
the car to come round. There was a bright moon, 
and St. Michael’s Mount looked like a massive 
shadow dividing two pools of luminous silver. It 
was low tide, and from the gate they could see the 
moonlight gleaming upon the stone causeway that 
joined it to the mainland. 

To Carina there was something mysterious about 
this ancient monastic fastness where once the Archan¬ 
gel Michael had appeared to human eyes. 

She and Jim stood side by side near the gate, look¬ 
ing out on to the Bay. Below in the road they could 
hear the throbbing of the engines. But now it had 
come to the point Jim seemed reluctant to leave her. 
In her white dress, silvered over by the moonlight, 
she seemed to form part of the intangible loveliness 
of the September night. 

Suddenly he caught her by the arm and pulled her 
toward him. She was aware of his irresistible 
strength. 

‘‘You hurt me, Jim,” she said, quietly disengaging 
herself. 

“I’m sorry. . . . And I’m sorry that I ve 

been so mad to-day. It must make you hate me. But 
I was jealous. . . . Jealous of Grove. I can’t 

have him interfering!” 

“He’ll never dream of interfering—you needn’t 
be afraid,” said Carina, her indignation slightly 


112 


CARINA 


touched with scorn. “And as for being jealous of 
him, that would be absurd. He was my father’s 
friend and he was older than my father. He was 
very, very kind to Mary and myself, and I can’t 
forget that, Jim.” There was a tinge of reproach 
in her voice now. 

Again he said: “I’m sorry, Carina.” The scorn 
and reproach in her tone had alike scourged him. 
“It was because you’d asked him to come here—and 
you’d never said a word about my coming. I had 
to take you by surprise to get a glimpse of you at 
all. Of course I know it would be absurd to be 
jealous, 
hurt.” 

“I only asked Richard to come on account of my 
book. I thought I’d made that quite clear to you.” 

“I suppose I hate the thought of your being oc¬ 
cupied with a book at such a time. So occupied that 
you could scarcely scribble me half a dozen lines!” 

Carina sighed. She could not see that her actions 
had been unreasonable. She wished to fulfill her 
contract, and she had simply made use of these last 
few weeks of freedom to finish her book. All the 
rest of her life was to belong to Jim. She wondered 
now if'he were going to prove jealous, petty, exact¬ 
ing. 

“I hate leaving you like this. I feel you can’t care 
for me any more. I know I lost my temper and 
said things I didn’t mean to. But won’t you forgive 
me before I go, Carina?” 

He came up quite humbly to where she was stand¬ 
ing, a little apart from him. Carina lifted her face 
to his. 

“Of course I forgive you, Jim. Don’t let’s think 
any more about it.” 

He drew her to him very gently and kissed her. 
Carina submitted to the embrace, but she was cold 


but I think I had every right to feel deeply 


CARINA 


113 

and unresponsive. Still, she couldn’t let him go away 
feeling miserable and unforgiven. 

“It’s all because I love you so much. . . he 

whispered. 

Carina did not speak. She looked at him with 
something of pity. He had that self-tormenting 
nature which is always such a misery to its possessor. 
Carina was herself quite without jealousy, nor did 
she ever suspect that affronts were intended when 
they most clearly were not. 

“If I’d thought you wanted to come so very much, 
Jim, I should have written to ask you,” she said, by 
way of comfort. 

“But you ought to have known. Even if you 
hadn’t wanted to see me, you ought to have realized 
I was waiting day after day for word to say that I 
might come.” 

“I’m so sorry, Jim. I ought to have thought of 
it,” she said, 

“You don’t seem to realize—anything!” he de¬ 
clared. 

She was patient, aware that her love had in his 
eyes been found wanting. Perhaps it was her way 
to take things too much for granted. She had ac¬ 
cepted their new relation quite tranquilly, as if it had 
hardly touched her heart at all. And she had seemed 
to expect a like composure and indifference from 
him. 

“Good-night, Jim. You must come and see us in 
London next week before we leave for Paris.” 

“May I, really?” he said. 

“But of course. . . . And I’m so sorry 

about to-day. We won’t think of it any more.” 

Jim kissed her again, and then went down the 
steep path to the road. Once he looked back, and 
she saw that he was smiling quite happily. 


11 4 CARINA 

“Good-night, Carina!” he called out in a cheery 
tone. 

“Good-night, Jim.’’ 

She waited there until the humming of the car 
had faded into silence as it sped rapidly along the 
road. Then she went slowly, thoughtfully, back to 
the house. In the veranda she saw Lady Murray 
evidently waiting for her. 

“Your last words took a long time,” she observed 

dryly. 

“Yes,” said Carina. “Did you see that I did any¬ 
thing to-day to offend Jim so desperately?” 

“No. I’d no idea—till it was too late to give you 
a hint—that he was inclined to be jealous of Richard. 
Such an idea would never have entered my head—” 

“I suppose it was only jealousy,” said Carina. She 
was relieved to find that her aunt did not think she 
had been to blame. 

“Well, you’ll know that it’s necessary to be care¬ 
ful in future,” said Lady Murray, briskly. 

She had felt half afraid that even now Carina 
might change her mind about marrying Jim. If ever 
a man had tried to ruin his own cause it was Mall¬ 
ory. She wished she had given him a few words of 
elderly advice; it was possible then that the little 
scene might have been averted. 

Carina turned suddenly and flung her arms im¬ 
petuously about her aunt’s neck. 

“Dear Aunt Nora, I simply hate being engaged,” 
she said. “People always tell you it’s such a happy 
time. And it isn’t a bit!” 

Having made this astounding confession she dis¬ 
appeared into the house, leaving. Lady Murray to 
meditate upon the general perversity of men when in 
love. . . . 


CHAPTER XII 


^VT' OU’VE changed,” said Richard Grove. 

A He was looking at Carina through his enor¬ 
mous blue-tinged glasses. 

Under this examination she moved a little rest¬ 
lessly. “It’s only because I’ve been writing against 
time. And I’m tired.” 

“Why did you work against time, then ? I’ve 
always warned you against doing that! It wouldn’t 
have killed either of you to postpone your marriage 
for a few months.” He glanced at the square heap 
of typewritten sheets in front of him. 

“Jim didn’t want to wait. Why, he suggested Sep¬ 
tember!” 

“Do you always mean to do what Jim wants?” 
inquired Grove. 

“I shall try,” said Carina hopefully. 

“Does he know your books? Does he like them? ’ 
“Oh, he doesn’t care for novels. I think he hopes 
that when I’m Mrs. James Mallory I shan’t have 
any time or wish to write!” 

Grove heaved a sigh. “Oh, then he means to 

smother you?” 

“Don’t let’s discuss it, Richard. You’d better go 

on with the book.” . . . „ 

“I think you are going to do a fool thing, Carina, 
said Grove imperturbably.. “You’re going to make 
a highly conventional marriage with a rich Philistine. 
Probably he’s thoroughly ashamed of your work. 
He’ll do his best to stop your ever writing again. 
He’ll make you bury your beautiful little talent in 
a napkin.” 


115 


CARINA 


116 

“You’re very gloomy to-day,” said Carina, with 
an assumption of carelessness. She tried not to feel 
uneasy, but his words seemed to confirm the impres¬ 
sions she had received during Jim’s brief, unsatis¬ 
factory visit. 

“I shouldn’t like to think your career was at an 
end at twenty-five,” he said, still scrutinizing her. 
He felt anxious about her. She was looking neither 
well nor happy. And if she wasn’t happy in this 
engagement of hers, why didn’t she put zn end to 
it? 

“People do drop out,” said Carina. She men¬ 
tioned a few names of people who had written one 
or two brilliant novels and then had been heard of 
no more. “And I feel I am starting a new career 
—with Jim. I’m going to try and make it a suc¬ 
cess.” 

Grove said abruptly: “Child, do you love this 
man?” 

Carina hesitated. Then she said quite simply. 
“Yes.” 

“He’s not a half-god?” 

“He’s not a god at all.” 

“You’ve got him to make the promises?” 

“Yes—he went to see a priest at once, to learn 
just where he stood. I thought perhaps he’d give up 
the idea of marrying me when he knew.” 

The same thought—or hope—had also occurred 
to Grove. 

“Instead of which it only seemed to show him—” 
She paused. 

“Yes?” He leaned forward a little, eager, at¬ 
tentive. 

“Just how much he cared,” concluded Carina. “For 
of course it was a sacrifice. He’s patron of the living 
at Linfold, you know. And he never knew I was a 
Catholic till we went to Linfold.” 


CARINA 


1 17 

“Ah, it was too late then,” said Grove, cryptically. 

“It’s curious that a man of that type should want 
to marry me,” she said, reflectively. 

“Lookin the glass!” advised Grove. 

“We care for such different things. He only 
likes outdoor things—games and sports. And I like 
books and solitude.” 

“And you don’t see any risk in that?” 

“There’s risk in all marriages.” 

“And this is ‘mixed’ into the bargain. What would 
dear old Alfred have said to that?” 

t “I’m quite sure he would have liked Jim,” said 
Carina confidently. 

“He would have counselled you to wait. Why, you 
hadn’t seen him more than three times when you got 
engaged.” 

“Richard, are you trying to make me break it off 
at the eleventh hour? For let me tell you it’s quite 
useless. I’m going to marry Jim. I’ve thought it all 
over very carefully, and I know the pros and cons 
as well as you do. But I do care for him, and I feel 
that we need each other.” She spoke with unusual 
spirit and determination. Not often had she an¬ 
swered Grove thus. It was as if in this instance she 
did not recognize his right to interfere. “And, after 
all, Aunt Nora approves,” she added. 

“I imagine she does. She’s engineered the whole 
business. Solitary niece—rather a handful—a rich 
widower wanting a wife. How do you like that 
cub of a boy—Mallory’s son?” 

“I’ve only seen him once,” said Carina guardedly. 

“He may make things very unpleasant for you!” 

“You’re determinedly pessimistic to-day,” laughed 
Carina, “but I don’t feel at all afraid of Peter. I’m 
sure I can make him like me. Jim’s too severe with 
him.” 


118 


CARINA 


“My dear, your Jim is a very hard man, and he 
broke his first wife’s heart.” 

“Well, I’m not going to let him break mine!” she 
said. 

“A charming girl,” remarked Richard, thought¬ 
fully, “they called her Iris, I remember. A pretty 
name—it suited her.” 

“You’re trying to frighten me now,” said Carina. 
“It’s no good y Richard. You know I’ve never been 
at all anxious to marry, and Jim is the first man I’ve 
ever cared in the least for. I’m not a nervous delicate 
woman like poor Iris Mallory. I can hold my own. 
And I do feel it’ll be a success.” 

“Well, we’d better attend to this stuff now,” said 
Grove, drawing the pile of typewritten sheets toward 
him. He looked very businesslike indeed, sitting be¬ 
fore the big writing table, his immense blue-tinged 
glasses on his nose, and a blue pencil in his hand. 

She thought involuntarily: “If Jim could see him 
now!” His country clothes were many degrees shab¬ 
bier and more out-of-date than his town ones. His 
collar was too large and his tie badly arranged. On 
the forehead the hair receded to a great depth like 
an ebbing tide, but it hung, long, grizzled, curly over 
his neck. 

“ ‘Dree your own weird,’ child, and don’t come 
crying to me if things go wrong,” he said presently, 
looking up from the book. 

“When have I ever come crying to you, Richard?” 
said Carina, indignantly. 

He did not answer, for he was already absorbed 
in the book. Presently she saw his hand move, and 
the blue pencil approached the paper. She put out 
her hand to restrain him. 

“I’m sure you can’t want it yet. Those first pages 
are really all right.” 

Grove laid down the pencil reproachfully. “Do 


CARINA 


1 19 

you want my advice or not? It was exceedingly in¬ 
convenient for me to come here at all. Malcolmson 
made no end of a fuss.” 

“I want your advice, but you might ask me before 
defacing my manuscript.” 

‘‘Well, I want to put my pencil through all those 
adjectives.” 

“No—I want them all. Every one of them.” 

Richard Grove was astonished. He was impressed, 
nevertheless, by Carina’s novel attitude. “Where’s 
my obedient little pupil? Is she to be lost too?” 
His old kind eyes twinkled behind the glasses. 

“Jim’s made me realize things about myself,” she 
said. 

“You mustn’t believe all Mallory says. When a 
man’s in love—” 

He watched her narrowly as he spoke, his thoughts 
temporarily diverted from the book. To-day Carina 
interested him far more profoundly than her work. 
He enjoyed studying her under this new aspect. He 
had often speculated and wondered about the man 
who should one day win Carina’s love, and he had 
so hoped that he would be understanding and sym¬ 
pathetic, able to encourage and stimulate her talent. 
And in his opinion Jim Mallory was the last man 
to be or to do any of these things. Report dubbed 
him a bit of a bully. That poor little first wife of 
his! And a great boy of Peter’s age, handsome, ar¬ 
rogant, indulged. It was impossible that Carina, 
after her life spent in the shadows, should be happy 
in such a milieu. 

But she was oddly determined, even obstinate in 
her decision to marry Mallory. She was in love 
perhaps—odious phrase—with this man. Probably 
the sense of being subjugated appealed to her as it 
does sometimes to women of independent character. 
Jim had been wise enough perhaps not to show her 


120 


CARINA 


too much of his dominating will. But later on, alas, 
she would no doubt realize its significance. Her re¬ 
ligion and her work would both suffer and even in¬ 
evitably weaken by the contact with that strong des¬ 
potic personality. There would be no sympathy for 
her there. She would have to learn to repress the 
two most important things in her life. 

“I don’t like it!” he said aloud. 

“Why? What’s the matter with it? I did hope 
to please you this time, Richard! I remembered all 
your pet prejudices.” 

“I wasn’t thinking of the hook,” he answered. 

Impulsively he stretched out his hand and touched 
Carina’s. 

“Child, am I to be shut out? I’m to have no place 
in Mrs. Jim Mallory’s life?” 

Carina stooped over his hand and touched it with 
her lips. The little graceful action was full of a 
charming significance. It seemed to imply that if 
the door were to be shut she would have no part in 
the shutting of it. 

“If you have no place it won’t be my fault,” she 
said, a little tremulously. “And you’ll be patient, 
won’t you? Jjm will want me all to himself *at first 
-even Peter isn’t to be there.” She looked at Grove 
with something of appeal in her eyes, as if entreat¬ 
ing him not to make the position in any way harder 
for her. . “I shall miss you—I shall miss even the 
blue pencil running through all my pet adjectives!” 

“Thank you, Carina,” said Grove. He looked 
suddenly an old tired man. So it meant he was going 
to lose Carina. “If you’re happy it won’t signify if 
I’m there or not.” 

“I think it will always matter to me,” she said 
quietly, “but Jim’s making sacrifices—big ones too— 
and I mustn t take all and give nothing, tde gave in 
so splendidly about the religious part, and I know 


CARINA 


121 


it wasn’t easy. He had a struggle—a spiritual 
struggle. I think it was knowing this that made me 
really begin to care for him very much. Up till 
then, I’d only felt amused and flattered, although of 
course I’d liked him from the first.” 

“Oh, I understand that,” Grove conceded grudg¬ 
ingly. 

But even now he was dissatisfied. Mallory would 
keep his promises; his sense of honor was too keen 
and fastidious a thing to permit him to fail in this 
respect. But he was not at all the man to tolerate 
the strange concentration upon her art which char¬ 
acterized Carina in her working hours. Grove felt 
that the girl’s career was in jeopardy. The talent 
he had cherished and tended would be left to perish. 
Suavely, diligently, he had watched over it, and for 
that reason Carina was almost like a child of his 
own. He had been proud of her quick success, of 
the rapid recognition that had come to her. And now 
perhaps it was all at an end. Mallory would want 
her all to himself, would resent interference of any 
description. He had a jealous, possessive tempera¬ 
ment, and Grove felt that Carina would be docile 
and yielding in his hands. 

In another month she would be this man’s wife. 
The thought was distasteful to Richard, especially 
when he remembered the failure of Mallory’s first 
marriage. But he must never be allowed to treat 
Carina as report said he had treated Iris! 

“We aren’t going to settle at Linfold till Christ¬ 
mas,” said Carina suddenly, breaking in upon his 
thoughts. “We shall be in Italy most of the time.” 

“Shall you take him to Rome?” 

“Oh, yes. Of course I must go to Rome.” 

“Won’t it hurt you to go back?” 

“You know I never shirk anything like that. Don’t 
you remember what Dad used to say about people 


122 


CARINA 


who edged away from suffering, instead of going up 
to it boldly?” 

He smiled. One of Alfred’s queer wise sayings, 
yet it sounded odd, too, on the lips of his young 
daughter. 

He rose from his seat. 

“I’ll take this up to my room and read it alone. 
No, I won’t touch it without your permission, you 
little tyrant. But you disturb me to-day, child. I’m 
not used to the change in you.” 

“But to you I shall never change,” she whispered. 

He touched her forehead with his lips. 

“God bless you, my dear child.” 

She followed him to the door. “Richard!” she 
said. 

He turned. 

“I didn’t mean that about the blue pencil. Please 
knock it about as much as you like. Do! It may be 
the last, you know.” 

“Very well, Carina.” 

He went out of the room, clasping the pile of 
typewritten sheets under his arm. 

He could only hope that Mallory realized what 
a highly gifted, individual woman he was going to 
marry. But Jim was perhaps the last person to ap¬ 
preciate those qualities. Grove felt that he would 
only want to change all that was lovely and unusual 
in Carina. 

He sat up till the small hours to finish Carina’s 
book. There was a subtle change in it which he at¬ 
tributed to the altered conditions of her life, to Mall¬ 
ory’s influence, perhaps. But it was very good, of 
that he felt no doubt. It might win for Mrs. Mall¬ 
ory a fame and success that Carina Ramsden had 
never known. Success that would surely be very dis¬ 
tasteful to Jim Mallory. ... 

“Mallory will hate it,” he said to himself. 


CARINA 


123 


When he gave it back to her on the following 
morning, he uttered a few words of finely-tempered 
praise. Carina flushed delightedly, for Richard was 
much more given to admonishing than to praising. 
It meant a great deal from him, and she was both 
touched and pleased, and showed it. “If you think 
well of it, Richard, I don’t care about anyone else’s 
opinion.” 

“Not even Jim’s?” he asked, a little cruelly. 

“I’ve made up my mind not even to expect Jim to 
care about my work,” she said. 

Richard looked at her strangely, but he said 
nothing. She was evidently so aware of Mallory’s 
limitations that it was useless and even cruel to dwell 
upon them to her. She had no illusions about him. 
She was marrying him with her eyes wide open to 
all that he so conspicuously lacked of sympathy and 
understanding. That did not make Grove feel any 
happier about her when Monday morning came and 
he took leave of her, and returned to Falmouth. 

Carina had cried a little, a thing which he could 
never remember seeing her do before. It was absurd 
of course, but she couldn’t bear to think that some 
day she might want to see Richard and talk to him 
about her work, and ask his advice in just the old 
way, and that he wouldn’t be allowed to come to her. 
Mallory had made it so very clear that he wouldn’t 
tolerate any interference from Grove after their 
marriage. 

She wished the two men had made an effort to 
like each other. It would have made things so much 
easier for her. . . . 


CHAPTER XIII 


ARINA was abroad on her honeymoon when 
her new novel was published. She had asked 
Lady Murray to send her one only of her presenta¬ 
tion copies, and to forward the reviews in her letters. 
She thus hoped to keep the matter from Jim, until 
he began to show a greater indifference to it. 

She had corrected the proofs rather hurriedly 
during a wet and stormy week in Switzerland. Mall¬ 
ory was unaware of the nature of his wife’s occupa¬ 
tion, for he was taking exercise in the pouring rain 
while she remained indoors and availed herself of 
his absence to complete her task. The wet weather 
was a godsend, for she had a cold and it was at 
Mallory’s own suggestion that she should stay in¬ 
doors, while he tramped along rivers or climbed 
mountain paths, and watched the cloud helmets drift¬ 
ing over Alpine summits, submerging them in seas 
of grey vapor. 

Mallory was like a boy, with a boy’s zest for en¬ 
joyment. The mountain air invigorated him, and 
the presence of Carina seemed to illuminate his life 
and thoughts to a degree which astonished him. She 
was so wonderful . . . and she was his. Since 

their marriage he had assiduously refrained from 
contemplating all the complications which had 
seemed to shadow the days of their engagement. He 
felt that he had never loved before. Carina was per- 
fect; They were alone together in this splendid 
j if wor ^* Even when it rained, as it so often 
did that autumn, relentlessly, violently, persistently, 

124 


CARINA 


125 


he did not feel in the least depressed by the incle¬ 
ment weather. He tramped for miles, remembering 
joyously that when he returned to the hotel, Carina 
would be there, waiting to give him his tea. He 
would picture the fire-lit sitting-room, which she 
always contrived to make so homey and charming 
while they were on their travels, with Carina coming 
toward him, more like a spirit than a woman. Car¬ 
ina, slender and exquisite, with her red-gold hair, her 
grey shining eyes, her pale sensitive face. . . . 

The wide brow, the pointed chin. . . 

They intended shortly to move on to Italy. It was 
really too late in the year for Lucerne, and the season 
was a particularly wet one. Carina had told him 
that November was often a beautiful month in 
Rome, still possessing something of the radiance 
and warmth of the departed summer. She was 
much more anxious to go there than he was; she 
spoke sometimes of old friends she wished to visit. 
Mallory was not in the mood for either Carina’s 
friends or his own, but he offered no objection. He 
was amenable to her least wish. Never in ’all his 
life had he been so neglectful, so oblivious even of 
self. Indeed, he was only prolonging their sojourn 
abroad because she so evidently wished it. She was 
reluctant—though he never guessed this—to return 
to Linfold. She had the feeling that life there would 
be different. She dreaded taking up the new duties, 
and perhaps disappointing Jim in her inadequate ac¬ 
complishment of them. 

They went to Italy toward the end of November, 
travelling by slow stages southward. Her delight 
in the artistic treasures of the great Italian cities was 
eager and enthusiastic. Mallory was a man whose 
early education in such things had been neglected; 
consequently they meant little or nothing to him. 
But he followed his wife through churches and gal- 


126 CARINA 

leries and dim frescoed cloisters like a great devoted 
dog. 

And then sometimes the question teazed him*. 
Would Carina ever be as happy at Linfold as she 
was in Italy, her second home, by her so dearly and 
passionately beloved? He realized for the first time 
her intimate knowledge of the country, her facile 
mastery of its language. At Linfold she would be 
arbitrarily cut off from these things. He saw, too, 
that her happiness didn’t depend upon people; slie 
had resources of enjoyment and interest within her¬ 
self. He followed her wistfully into the wonderful 
cathedrals of Milan, Venice, and Florence, where 
she was so at home and he such a desperate ignorant 
stranger. It was in Italy that he began to be per¬ 
plexed by something elusive in Carina herself. She 
was beautiful and tender, but she did not concentrate 
her attention wholly upon him. Whereas for him 
it seemed in those days that there existed only Carina. 
Everything else was remote, obscure, negligible, 

. . . shadows in a world of shadows. . . . 

Some day they would return to Linfold, and come 
into contact once more with the pleasant English 
country life that had always so completely satisfied 
him. But now he had the sense that he and Carina 
were wandering in a beautiful dream, almost apart 
and divorced from reality. 

They reached Rome early in December. The 
hand of autumn was still visible in the exquisite 
showers of gold that garmented the trees, though 
winter menaced in the faint snow line that touched 
the summit of Monte Gennaro. The skies were bril¬ 
liant and cloudless, and of a delicious blue. The sun¬ 
shine illuminated the ancient honey-colored palaces, 
the grey domes, and flashed amid the spray of in¬ 
numerable fountains, turning their waters to gold and 
silver. The climate was invigorating, warm enough 


CARINA 


127 


in the sunshine, but with a touch of mountain air to 
temper it, as if some cool draught had escaped from 
the sea and the Apennines and found its way into 
the city. 

Mallory felt much more at home in Rome. Its 
cosmopolitan life suited him. He had taken his 
degree in history, and he knew something of its great 
imperial past. Its ruins and ancient monuments ap¬ 
pealed to him. He was conscious, too, of a wider 
freer atmosphere. Carina found many friends 
among both Italians and English; they lunched and 
dined out frequently. 

All went well until one morning when walking in 
the Corso they perceived a familiar figure approach¬ 
ing them. It was Richard Grove. 

He looked more than usually eccentric in Rome. 
His ill-cut clothes, large substantial boots, his un¬ 
fashionable collar and weird loose tie, to say nothing 
of his ancient hat, made him sufficiently conspicuous 
to attract the derision of the Roman street-boy in a 
land where a wide divergence of costume is tolerated. 
But Grove heeded neither gibe nor sneer; probably 
he was unaware of them, for his preoccupation was, 

as a rule, complete. . 

Carina was the first to see and recognize him; she 
left her husband’s side and darted toward Richard 
with both hands outstretched and her face aglow 
with joy. She completely forgot Mallory’s jealous 
dislike of Grove, and even if she had remembered 
it she would have told herself that Jim was now far 
too devoted to her to feel any further rancor on the 

subject. 

Prominent in her thoughts was her eagerness to 
show Richard how happy she was—how devoted 
Mallory was to her. She was proud of that devo¬ 
tion. No cloud had arisen to mar the perfect hap¬ 
piness of their wedding journey. 


128 


CARINA 


Jim watched the meeting with slowly-darkening 
brow. Really, Carina must learn not to behave like 
an irresponsible baby! . . . 

His old jealous dislike of Grove returned with 
a sharper intensity. He felt at that moment as if 
he actively hated him. He was a sinister shadow 
that had obtruded itself upon the noonday brightness 
of their happiness. 

Carina was perfectly oblivious of her husband’s 
disapproval. She was hardly thinking of him in her 
joy at seeing Richard’s familiar friendly face. She 
stood there, talking and laughing, while Grove looked 
at her with his twinkling eyes. Absurd creature— 

with his long unkempt hair; his slouching as¬ 
pect. . . . 

Mallory approached them without a smile on his 
hard face. 

“How d’ye do, Mr. Grove? Carina, we must be 
moving on. It’s late—” 

It was not late, but in his anger he hardly knew 
what he was saying. 

Carina’s face fell as she heard the cold words. 
She knew by Jim’s voice, that he was very angry, 
just as he had been on that day in Cornwall when 
he had heard of Richard’s approaching visit. 

Angry . . . yes . . . but why? With her? 

With Grove? Such a supposition seemed wholly 
unreasonable. But, then, he had always shown him¬ 
self utterly unreasonable where Richard was con¬ 
cerned. Their meeting was both unexpected and un¬ 
premeditated; why should it annoy him? 

“Richard’s been telling me what a success my new 
book is!” Carina turned to him with shining eyes. 
He would surely forgive Grove when he heard the 
good news. “Isn’t it splendid, Jim? Three editions 
in a few days. It’s caught on, he says!” 


CARINA 


129 

“Your new book? What new book? You did not 
tell me it was published.” 

“I didn’t know it myself until now. We haven’t 
seen the papers lately,” she answered, growing sud¬ 
denly grave. 

Grove stood there in silence. He had seen the 
disappointment, the sadness even, clouding Carina’s 
bright face, diminishing its very youth. She had not 
known her book was actually published, but she must 
have corrected the proofs and was therefore aware 
that it was in the press and that its appearance was 
only a matter of weeks. 

“But you know—you must have forgotten, Jim— 
it’s the book I finished in Cornwall.” 

“Do you mean it’s out already? Why didn’t you 
tell me?” His voice was harsh and disapproving. 

Grove wondered indeed why she had never told 
him anything about it. Surely in that delicate new 
intimacy of husband and wife they must have spoken 
of her work. Carina had always been so frank about 
it, with her few intimates. With himself and Mary, 
for instance. He glanced uneasily at Mallory, who 
was holding himself stiff and upright, and seemed 
to be regarding them both from his superior height 
as if they were very little people indeed. He looked 
tall, splendid, imposing. Grove had not hitherto 
quite envisaged the fact of Jim’s superb physique, 
his handsome powerful face. It helped him now to 
understand Carina’s hitherto inexplicable devotion, 
as well as poor little Iris’s disastrous infatuation. 

“You would hardly believe, Mr. Mallory, how our 
publishers often keep us in the dark with regard to 
these details,” he said, in his pleasant smooth voice. 

“But you no doubt know the secret of acquiring 
such information,” dropped from Mallory’s lips. 

“I read my Literary Supplement” said Grove 
dryly. 


130 


CARINA 


“Carina, we must not detain Mr. Grove any 
longer,” said Jim. He bowed abruptly to Grove and 
strode away along the narrow pavements, not once 
turning his head to ascertain whether Carina were 
following him. Carina hardly gave herself time to 
touch Richard’s outstretched hand, so eager was she 
to pursue Mallory’s retreating form. She came up 
to him a little breathlessly. She had the sense of 
having been bruised, yes and beaten, by his harsh 
unsympathetic words. What had happened? Why 
was Jim angry? And why did the fact of his being 
angry seem now such a terrible, such an unbearable 
thing? In Cornwall it had stirred only a faint iron¬ 
ical amusement within her, coupled certainly with a 
slight resentment. 

Owing to the crowd which always throngs the 
Corso in the morning, she could not see Jim’s face. 
She walked slightly behind him. 

All the past few weeks seemed to have been ab¬ 
ruptly blotted out, with all that they had held of 
tranquillity and happiness. She was face to face 
with Jim—the real Jim of whom she had had that 
one disquieting glimpse in Cornwall. The Jim that 
had made poor Iris so miserable. . . . 

He did not utter a word until they reached the 
hotel. Generally they drove back, as it was some 
distance to walk. Carina felt tired and exhausted 
by the time the revolving plate-glass doors had closed 
upon them and they were standing in the big luxuri¬ 
ous lounge. The gilt chairs, the cushioned settees, 
the waving palms and small tables were all set out 
upon a rose-colored carpet. Electric lights burning 
in glittering Venetian chandeliers illuminated the 
scene. 

“We’ll have lunch at once,” said Jim. 

She followed him into the restaurant. It was still 
early, and there were not many people there. A 


CARINA 


131 

waiter brought them hors-d } oeuvres and a wine-list. 
Carina refused the former; the thought of the highly 
flavored food sickened her. All the time she was 
thinking: “Why is he so angry? What have I done? 
Why, it’s seemed simply impossible all these weeks 
that he should ever be angry again!” 

The unwonted exercise had flushed her face a little, 
and her eyes were suspiciously bright. 

Presently Jim said: 

“Did you tell Grove when we were coming here?” 

“No. He’s taken an apartment for the whole win¬ 
ter with Mr. Malcolmson—they’re still collaborat¬ 
ing over a play.” 

The answer did little to appease Jim’s anger. 

“Why on earth didn’t you tell me your book was 
to be published so soon? I have a right to know 
these things!” 

“But Jim—you knew I’d written it—that was why 
I went to Cornwall.” 

“You must have had the proofs,” he said. 

“Yes.” 

“When?” 

“Just after we were married—the first week. We 
were at Lucerne.” 

“And you said nothing about it!” said Jim. “Why 
were you so sly and secretive about it? I dislike in¬ 
tensely learning anything of your private affairs from 
Grove. I dislike your attitude toward him more than 
I can say.” He did not raise his voice, but uttered 
the sentences in rapid, icy tones. 

a I’m . . . I’m very sorry, Jim,” said Carina. 

“Richard was so pleased about it—that made him 
anxious to tell me—to congratulate me. I think I’d 
rather forgotten about it—it didn’t seem to matter, 
at least not so much.” She was trying to tell him 
that his devotion had driven lesser matters from her 
mind. 


132 


CARINA 


But Jim was wilfully obtuse. He was determined 
to believe that Carina had kept her knowledge from 
him for reasons of her own. 

“It seems extraordinary that Lady Murray 
shouldn’t have told you!” 

“She hardly ever writes,” answered Carina. 

“Have you received money for this book?” he 
asked. 

“Not yet. But I shall get my advance royalties 
at the end of the month.” 

“How much will that be?” 

“About two hundred pounds,” she answered. 

He was astonished. Two hundred pounds—an 
adequate income for any married woman, living as 
his wife would live at Linfold. And it wasn’t as if 
Carina needed the money. He had settled a certain 
sum on her at the time of their marriage, and had 
promised her a quarterly allowance as well. Jim 
was not naturally generous about money; he pre¬ 
ferred to keep it in his own hands. Peter only re¬ 
ceived a very moderate amount of pocket-money, 
and if he wanted more he had to apply for it, and 
show where his lack of economy had lain. Jim 
hadn’t particularly wished to give Carina that al¬ 
lowance, but Lady Murray backed by her lawyer 
had insisted. 

“What’s it about?” he asked. 

“The scene is laid in Italy.” Carina was no longer 
agitated; she had recovered from the first onslaught, 
and her tone was as icy as his own. 

He said firmly: “I hope this will be the last, Car¬ 
ina. You’ve no need to earn money now.” 

“But it isn’t only the money, Jim,” she said. “Of 
course, that was necessary when I had Mary. But I 
write because I love it—because I must. It’s part 
of me.” 

“Part of you? Nonsense!” he said. “And in any 


CARINA 


133 


case you’ll have no time for it now. You’ll have lots 
to do at Linfold. Social things ... I hope 
I’ve made that quite clear, Carina?” 

His tone of authority pricked her to a slight re¬ 
bellion. 

“But it’s my work—my life—” she said. Her eyes 
were very bright. 

“Please don’t argue, Carina. You have chosen a 
different life, a new set of duties.” 

Dessert was on the table. Carina sipped her wine; 
it had a sharp acid taste. Jim was peeling a pear. 
There was dead silence between them. 

He had evoked within her a perfectly novel set 
of emotions of whose very existence she had not 
hitherto been aware. Mingled with her pain was 
resentment at his attitude; she was conscious, too, 
of a touch of anger. He hated this work of hers, just 
as she instinctively felt that he hated her religion. 
He had never been at his ease when they had visited 
churches and cathedrals together, and she had felt 
it was because they reminded him too strongly of the 
weakness of his own surrender. Yet her religion 
and her work had both till now seemed absolutely 
inseparable not only from her life, but from her very 
being, her personality. Stripped of them, what was 
she? How could he love her, hating these things 
that had gone to the forming of her? He could love 
her outward aspect, her voice, face, and gestures; 
these could stir his senses, arouse his affection, but 
the soul, the brain were undiscovered spheres to him. 
He hated—as she now knew—that she should have 
points of contact with things that were outside his 
own life. 

The whole episode had startled her into a very 
vivid consciousness of apparently irreparable disas¬ 
ter. They should never have married. The very ir¬ 
revocability of that marriage appalled her. . . - 


134 


CARINA 


She must go through life by Jiim’s side, bearing his 
children, yielding to his wishes, yet aware always of 
their eternal separation. By that hard indomitable 
look in his face he made her feel that he meant to en¬ 
force his will in this matter of her writing. She 
would have to obey. There was, however, always 
the one point upon which his will could never affect 
her. When she thought of this it seemed to her the 
more necessary that in all matters of lesser impor¬ 
tance she should give way. She must make the sur¬ 
render, aware that he too had had to offer sacri¬ 
fices. 

Mallory rose from his seat. 

“That’s quite settled, isn’t it, Carina? We need 
never refer to it again. I’m afraid it’s brought us 
rather near to our first quarrel—since we married.’’ 
He touched her hand. 

Carina did not respond to his touch. She held her 
head very high as she went out of the great garish 
restaurant with its gilded walls, its brilliant lights. 
How could he, professing to love and understand 
her, show such utter ignorance of, such contempt 
for, the cherished creative gift? Settled? The first 
quarrel? These words seemed to have no meaning 
at all for her. They could not explain the dim 
shadows that had crept down over her life, dimming 
its beauty. But her motionless pale face gave no 
hint of the fierce interior mutiny that was convuls¬ 
ing her soul. 

She had the feeling that she was Jim’s prisoner. 


CHAPTER XIV 


W HEN they went upstairs to their sitting room, 
Carina saw lying on the table a heap of news¬ 
papers that had just arrived from England. There 
was also a parcel for her—obviously a book—ad¬ 
dressed in Lady Murray’s writing. She felt con¬ 
vinced that it was the copy of her new novel which 
she had asked might be forwarded to her. It could 
not have arrived at a more inopportune moment. 
She had a wild idea of taking it away and hiding it 
from Jim. But with one of his unexpected flashes 
of intuition he looked at her and said: 

“Is that your new book? You haven’t told me its 
name.” 

“I think it must be my book, but I haven’t opened 
it yet. It is called—” she paused—“it is called The 
Conversion of Claude.” 

“Do you mean by conversion that he was converted 
to Catholicism?” inquired Jim, his black brows 
frowning heavily. 

“Yes,” said Carina. 

“Your last book had the same kind of tendency. 
Perhaps your aim is to proselytize?” 

She was silent, thinking: “Yes, he hates that too. 
More than the other.” She felt as if the solid ground 
were giving way beneath her feet. In the deep 
things of the soul she was utterly severed from Mall¬ 
ory. They seemed to be speaking to each other 
across cold seas of suspicion and doubt. 

“I simply can’t let you—as my wife—write Cath¬ 
olic novels!” said Jim. “You must see it wouldn’t 

135 


CARINA 


136 

do at all. You must be as quiet about your religion 
as possible. You’ll find yourself so much in the mi¬ 
nority at Linfold, it would never do for you to be 
—noisy! 

He was using the word Mr. Humphreys had made 
use of when he first informed him that he was going 
to marry a Roman Catholic. The rector had looked 
perturbed, had murmured something about Mall¬ 
ory’s knowing his own business best, and then had 
added: 

“But I hope you’ll see that she isn’t too noisy 
about it!” 

Noisy! He had resented the word at the time, and 
had received the rector’s hopes in cold silence. Now 
as he watched the effect of the word upon Carina, 
he noticed that she flinched a little as if it had 
wounded her. 

“I can only hope that your friend Mr. Grove was 
exaggerating its success. No doubt he has some 
influence with the press. But such publicity is very 
distasteful to me.” 

Carina listened, motionless, silent. All her pleas¬ 
ure in her book was gone. She wished that she 
had never written it. Othello with the pillow, 
smothering the thing that aroused his jealousy, slay¬ 
ing the talent he abhorred. ... Yes, Jim was 
jealous of this work of hers that had so permeated 
her life for the past six years. Grove’s words of 
warning came back to her: “He’ll make you bury 
your beautiful talent in a napkin.” 

. Mallory had sunk into his chair and was begin¬ 
ning to open the papers. Suddenly she heard him 
exclaim: “It’s incredible you should have been so 
kept in the dark about it!” He flung the paper 
across to her. Her eye caught a large advertise¬ 
ment among the publishers’ announcements. Her 
own name was printed at the top of the page ip big 


CARINA 


137 


letters—Carina Ramsden. . . . Excerpts from 

several reviews were printed below the title of her 
novel, The Conversion of Claude. She glanced at 
them trembling. “The Success of the Year,” “Miss 
Ramsden has never done anything better,” “A deli¬ 
cate piece of work, the best thing she has done,” 
“Miss Ramsden is a marvel,” “We take off our hats 
to Miss Ramsden. . . .” “A clever psychological 

study. We do not remember to have reviewed a 
novel of such distinction for many years. . . .” 

How she and Mary would have laughed and re¬ 
joiced over such an advertisement as that! The 
words Fourth Edition in the Press seemed too won¬ 
derful to be true. If only Jim could have been glad 
for her sake. . . . She was too new to success 

not to find its sweetness delicious. But when she 
looked across at Jim and encountered his dark angry 
face, all her pleasure was turned to bitterness. She 
was even sorry that the book was attracting so much 
attention. She let the paper drop from her hand. 

“I’d no idea I was marrying such a celebrity,” he 
said. 

“Oh, Jim. . . /’ 

“It’s quite repulsive to me—all this notoriety.” 

Carina was silent. She still had ambition, the 
ambition of youth that hardly concerns itself with 
financial aspects. 

“Do you really want me to sacrifice it?” she 
asked. 

“Certainly I do. Haven’t I made sacrifices for 
you? I want to take you quite away from Grub 
Street with its Richard Groves. The man flatters 
you—makes you believe that your work is wonder¬ 
ful—fans your ambition—” 

Carina said breathlessly: “Oh, then he’s to be sac¬ 
rificed too?” 

“Yes. I don’t care to have him hanging about.’ 1 




CARINA 


There was a long pause. At last Mallory rose 
from his seat, and came over to where she was sit¬ 
ting. He laid his hand on her shoulders. 

“Carina!” 

She did not stir. 

“Carina—dear child—don’t let’s quarrel about it 
any more. When we were married I hoped you 
would be content to lead the life I was able to offer 
you. After all, I had something to give, and I gave 
more than you knew when I made those promises.” 

“Yes,” she acquiesced, wearily. 

Soon she would be too exhausted from the hurt¬ 
ful strain of enduring Jim’s displeasure, to wish even 
to resist any more. 

u You’re making me feel that you’ve never cared 
for me in the least!” he continued. “You want to 
go back to that old life of effort and restless ambi¬ 
tion—things that were wearing you to the bone. I 
saw the effect it all had upon you when I went down 
to Cornwall. You looked feverish, unnatural. It’s 
just this that I want to take you away from, Carina. 
I want you to learn to care for simpler things. I 
know you re thinking me hard and unsympathetic 
and a brute, but I’m not, really. I’m thinking of vour 
health, your well-being.” 

“I am sure you are, Jim,” she answered. 

“You’ve listened to Grove and obeyed him so long 
about your writing, that I quite see it’s difficult for 
you at 'first to realize that you have turned your back 
on that chapter of.your life. You’ve begun a fresh 
page, with me, Carina.” He made the appeal almost 
wistfully. All the time he was aware that his outburst 
of temper had predestined his cause to failure. He 
dimly guessed that his sledge-hammer methods must 
compare less than favorably with Grove’s suave, 
scholarly intercourse, his sympathy and subtle flat¬ 
tery. Carina had always been spoilt, had had her 


CARINA 


139 


own way tn a measure that must be hurtful to any 
very young woman. Success had made her confident, 
had given her poise and assurance. He had been at¬ 
tracted by those very qualities in her, but that did 
not mean that they must be allowed to run to seed. 

After all, he had tried to make it clear to her be¬ 
fore their marriage that he couldn’t have a scribbling 
wife. A less brilliant woman would have accepted 
the hint more submissively. Of course, he had been 
jealous and hasty, but Carina seemed unaccountably 
far more offended than grieved at his attitude. Obvi¬ 
ously she resented any interference with her life. 
But she must see—she must be made to see—how 
impossible it was for Mrs. Mallory of Linfold to 
write novels of a definitely Catholic tendency. She 
must keep quiet about her religion—she mustn’t be, 
as Humphreys would say, “noisy.” And then the 
difficulty of keeping such books from Peter’s hands! 
He would want to read them out of sheer curiosity. 
The vision of Peter seemed to rise up in judgment 
against him. He felt that he had made a false move, 
and that however fruitful in consequences it might 
prove to be, he would only have himself to blame. 

He took up his hat. “Pm going for a walk, Car- 

• «% 


ina. 


“Oh, I thought you meant to go to St. Paul’s this 
afternoon?” 

“No. I don’t feel inclined for any more churches 
to-day.” 

He went out of the room. Carina quietly unfolded 
the paper and took out The Conversion of Claude. 
It was bound in blue, and was also encased in a bril¬ 
liant, colored “jacket.” For a little while she exam¬ 
ined its exterior, then she began to read. 

The autumn afternoon wore on, and Jim did not 
return. He hoped that Carina would mind his thus 
absenting himself for a whole afternoon; he even 


140 


CARINA 


hoped that she might miss him. He would not have 
been exactly flattered could he have seen how com¬ 
pletely absorbed she was in her book—so deeply 
absorbed that his absence, if she had ever thought 
about it, would have been regarded as a relief, giving 
her the requisite leisure to read through her new 
novel. But though she read on with her normal 
critical interest in the final and complete form of her 
work, there was always a shadow glancing at the 
back of her thoughts. A shadow, vague and amorph¬ 
ous, that yet deprived her enjoyment of its usual zest. 
Jim had left her, still in anger ; he had gone out leav¬ 
ing her alone. At the time his anger had only pro¬ 
duced within her a sense of sheer physical exhaus¬ 
tion. She had considered him despotic, jealous, and 
exacting. He hated her work, and he was going to 
try to put it down with a strong hand. But now the 
thought of him diverted her attention from Claude. 
She must try to prevent him from reading the book. 
He wouldn’t like it. He would wish with all his 
heart that she had never 'written it. ... 

Yet, it was evidently going to be an outstanding 
success. She couldn’t expect Jim to feel any pride 
in that fact. He resented the notoriety, the success, 
things he didn’t in the least wish to associate with 
his wife. 

Carina put down the book. Dusk was closing 
over the city, enveloping it in a blue mantle to be 
studded presently with stars. She opened the 
window and a breeze stole into the room—the 
nightly sea-breeze that refreshes and cools Rome at 
all seasons of the year. Carina leaned her chin on 
her hand and looked out over the city. 

Of course, the thing she had to do now was to 
make Jim happy. It wasn’t easy, and it meant mak¬ 
ing sacrifices. It was a dreadful prospect, this hav¬ 
ing to put aside all ambition at twenty-five years old, 


CARINA 


141 


just when success was beginning to come to her with 
liberal gifts, and in a measure that at one time would 
have seemed quite fantastic. Jim meant to tear 
those gifts out of her hands, and trample upon them. 
He had made sacrifices himself, and he seemed to 
think it only fair that she should make them, too. 
Carina began slowly to see that perhaps if not exact¬ 
ly right, he had at least some show of reason on his 
side. She was sorry that he had left her now, of¬ 
fended, unreconciled. Was there to be no pleasure 
for her in the future unless Jim was ready and able 
to share it? She couldn’t treat his likes and dislikes 
as if they didn’t exist. He had rights, within certain 
well-defined limits, and as his wife she ought to 
recognize them. Jim would never consent to be a 
negligible nonentity in any woman’s life. He would 
always be striving for the mastery. And because 
she knew that she could never give in, in the greater 
things, the things that concerned the soul, she felt 
that it would be absolutely incumbent upon her to 
bend to his will in other less important matters. Her 
work must be set aside. He had made that quite 
clear. And Richard—for a time at least—it would 
be better for her not to have any communication with 
her old friend. Jim was jealous of the part that 
Grove had played in her life, as teacher, mentor, 
counsellor. Unreasonable, perhaps, but there the 
fact remained. 

Carina went into her bedroom and locked the novel 
away in one of her boxes. Its gaudy, colored jacket 
shouldn’t be visible to annoy Jim when he returned. 

She wanted him to come in and make peace. Car¬ 
ina hated to feel at variance with anyone. She and 
Mary had hardly ever quarrelled. The process 
seemed to be almost degrading, and she had always 
hated to be present when a husband and wife 
wrangled. In her short life she had met with little 


142 


CARINA 


opposition; k was an unpleasing novelty, and she 
had not yet learned to meet it tranquilly. Her spirit 
was inclined to rebel against dominance of any kind. 
She saw in a flash that if she wished for peace she 
would have to yield to Jim, as far as was morally 
speaking possible. 

It was nearly dinner-time and she was already 
dressed when she 'heard his step in the sitting-room. 
She opened the door and came toward him. He 
looked very tired, almost spent with exhaustion, as 
if during those four hours of absence he had tramped 
and tramped till he was worn out with fatigue and 
suppressed emotion. 

“Carina!” he said. 

She went up to him and he took 'her in his arms. 
Carina submitted to the embrace. She was able to 
assure herself now that she loved him—that little 
else mattered. People proverbially found the first 
year of marriage a difficult time; there must neces¬ 
sarily be adjustment to new conditions, surrender, 
sacrifice. She and Jim both possessed strong char¬ 
acters and wills, and there were bound to be colli¬ 
sions and misunderstandings until they 'had both 
learned to be adaptable and conciliating in that new 
life of theirs. 

“What a long time you’ve been gone, Jim. I 
thought you were never coming back,” she said 
softly. 

He looked at her with haggard, miserable eyes. 
Her gentleness touched him: he had believed that 
she must hate him. He had made himself hateful 
to her. 

“Carina, darling. . . .” 

She put her arms round his neck and kissed him. 
He was very dear to her in a curious illogical way 
that she did not yet quite understand. His love was 
of an exacting, jealous, possessive kind that would 


CARINA 


143 


often perhaps make him wretched without any ade¬ 
quate cause. He could not brook even an imper¬ 
sonal rival. 

“Oh, Jim, don’t let’s ever quarrel again,” she 
said; “it hurts us both too much!” 


CHAPTER XV 


T HE Mallorys arrived at Linfold a few days be¬ 
fore Christmas. They had been detained for 
a couple of days at Boulogne owing to a storm in 
the Channel. Carina had altogether refused to face 
the crossing until the weather became more temper¬ 
ate, and it was a question whether they or Peter 
would reach Linfold first. 

The storm had completely passed, leaving as it so 
often does a dead calm, as if the sea had wearied 
of its own violence and was thankful to sink upon 
peace. Bleak cold airs clung tenaciously to England. 
A film of grey hung over the distant prospect; the 
sky was curtained with a low pall of unbroken cloud, 
impenetrable, persistent. They reached Linfold in 
the afternoon, just as the early winter dusk was be¬ 
ginning to fall. But it was still light enough for 
Carina to observe the opal spaces of sky and sea, 
the dim grey-green of the downs, with the darker 
patches of gorse upon their slopes; the trees etched 
like some delicate-patterned lace in tones of purple 
and umber. 

As they drew near the house, standing old and 
grey in its setting of garden and woods, she saw 
there were lights in some of the windows. The 
thought that she was coming back to Jim’s home 
which was now her own, for the first time, thrilled 
her. Hitherto her eagerness to begin that new life 
of hers in their own home had been largely tempered 
with fear lest she should not make a success of it. 
But she had learnt a good deal about Jim in the two 

months of their marriage, and she felt now she had 

144 


CARINA 


145 


no real cause for fear. Caution and prudence were 
necessary, but she had already acquired some knowl¬ 
edge of those qualities. It was good now to see the 
lights in the old house shining as if in welcome. 

Jim had suggested that Peter should spend a couple 
of days with his aunt, so that he could join them 
after their arrival, but the delay caused by the storm 
might have frustrated this plan. Sophia Mallory was 
to come to Linfold for Christmas, according to im¬ 
memorial custom. Carina was eagerly determined 
to do her duty by the three Mallorys. At present 
she felt a little outside the group, almost as if she 
did not belong to their intimate circle. She was such 
a stranger to Peter and Sophia, and they had neither 
of them tried to show her that she was a welcome 
addition to the family. Perhaps it would be uphill 
work at first, but in this matter she could count on 
Jim’s support. 

“We must be very happy here, Carina,” he said, 
as the car turned swiftly up the avenue and ap¬ 
proached the house. 

“I’m sure we shall be,” she answered confidently. 

It came into her mind then to wonder whether his 
thoughts were with Iris—that delicate beautiful 
woman who had loved him with such an absorbing 
passion. Perhaps he was even thinking of his first 
return to Linfold with his bride, sixteen years ago. 
“Why—I wasn’t ten then,” thought Carina. The 
knowledge gave her a little shock—it seemed to put 
such a great gulf of years between them .... 
She could see herself and Mary at that immature 
age. Wearing wfiite frocks and with their long hair 
brushed off their foreheads. Mary three years 
younger but nearly as tall—they had always looked 
almost of an age. . . . Their father was alive 

then, and they had lived a delightful, rambling, 
nomadic existence with him, chiefly in Italy. It 


146 


CARINA 


wasn’t the way to bring up children, he used to say, 
and he knew they ought to go to school and be prop¬ 
erly educated, but he couldn’t bear to part with 
them. . . . 

“I want Peter to be very specially happy these 
holidays,” she said, remembering her own happy 
care-free childhood. 

“Yes. But he must learn to accustom himself to 
the change,” answered Mallory. 

“I’ll do all I can to reconcile him to it,” said Car¬ 
ina. “Of course, I can’t expect him to like me just 
at first. It’ll be difficult—a stepmother only ten years 
older than himself.” 

“Eleven,” corrected Mallory, “he isn’t fifteen 
yet. ...” 

But she was nearer to Peter’s age than to his own. 
And this afternoon with that soft color in her cheeks, 
she looked younger than her twentydive years. 

They had reached the house, and now she could 
see that the door was open, and through it a shaft 
of light made an oblong-ray on the gravel drive. 
Some servants, including Saunders, the white-haired 
butler who had been in the service of Jim’s father, 
were gathered on the doorstep, in attitudes of re¬ 
spectful if subdued welcome. Mallory was smiling 
and affable as he led Carina into the house. She was 
smiling too, but she felt nervous. They passed into 
the hall, and she felt that the old house had opened 
its arms to receive her. The great door was shut. 
In another moment she was alone with Jim in the 
library. 

He kissed her, not trusting himself to speak. It 
was so wonderful to see her there, so almost un¬ 
believable. And he passionately wanted her to be 
happy. To be contented with all that he could so 
abundantly offer her. To forget the past with its 
effort, its restless ambition—all the things he so 


CARINA 


147 

hated for her. ... He never reflected that these 
were the views of the older generation to which he 
belonged and to which Carina did not. In hiis gener¬ 
ation women had not worked for their living un¬ 
less they belonged to the professional classes. They 
had lived, in cultured idleness if rich, and starved 
genteelly if poor. Only a few emancipated spirits 
had found their way out of the net, and were gener¬ 
ally condemned by right-thinking persons for their 
advanced even revolutionary views. He did not per¬ 
ceive that that past effort, that achieved independ¬ 
ence, had given force and strength and value to Car¬ 
ina’s character. She was not a child; she had looked 
life in the face, had seen some of its harsher aspects 
of poverty, and she was not afraid of realities. Nor 
did he ever dre'am that she had loved her task, had 
found pleasure in the ecstatic absorption of the artist 
in the thing of his own creation. 

Mallory rang the bell. 

“We’ll have tea,” he said. 

When the servant appeared in answer, Carina 
looked toward the door. Beyond, in the shadows 
of the. hall, she discerned a young figure, standing 
there irresolutely. 

“Why, there’s Peter!” she exclaimed. 

“Peter, what are you doing there? Come in—” 
Mallory’s voice was sharp and decisive. He was 
angry with himself for not having inquired if his son 
had returned. The truth was that amid the varied 
and poignant emotions of their home-coming he had 
temporarily forgotten him. 

Peter entered the room. 

“Dad, I came back the day before yesterday. 
Aunt Sophia is ill in London, and couldn’t have me.” 

“Peter—” said Mallory, “this is my wife.” 

The boy held out his hand. He greeted Carina, 
but in doing so his young face became strangely hard. 


148 


CARINA 


He had no smile to give her. 

He was taller than she was, slenderly built, with 
as yet little hint of Mallory’s great physical strength. 

He was thinking: “What on earth made her marry 
Dad? She looks twenty years younger than he does. 
It can only have been for his money—he must be 

blind not to see it!” 

Carina took the proffered hand. 

“But how nice to find you here, Peter!” she said, 
and her voice was very soft. Soft too was the look 
she gave him. He was dear to her because he was 
Jim’s son. Peter was deliberately obtuse to both 
voice and look. He hardened his heart against 
her. Why did she want to come here—spoiling 
things? ... 

There was an awkward, constrained silence. At 
last he said: 

“I told them to put tea in the drawing-room. Did 
you want it in here?” His eyes met his father’s 
squarely. 

“No—we’ll have it there,” said Jim. “Come, Car¬ 
ina—you must be cold.” He linked his arm in. his 
wife’s and led her across the hall into the drawing¬ 
room, with its three great windows looking over 
the Park to the distant sea. 

Flowers bloomed in every corner, and the con¬ 
servatory beyond was a blaze of color. A great fire 
burned upon the ample hearth. The room though 
immense was cosily warm, for the whole house was 
heated with radiators. That innovation had been 
introduced in Iris’s lifetime—she had felt the cold 
terribly. . . . 

“How pretty!” said Carina. A sense of warmth 
and comfort and well-being seemed to envelop her. 
She had never possessed that kind of luxury before. 
She was a little tired and excited after her journey, 
her homecoming as a bride, and the warmth soothed 


CARINA 


149 


her. She realized now, that she had dreaded the 
moment of arrival. She had feared too that some 
subtle interior conflict, as it were between the present 
and the past, might disturb her. But she knew now 
that this was the life which she had deliberately 
chosen and preferred. She could not reject it—the 
time for that was past. She belonged to Jim and to 
Linfold, and she felt a strange new pride at the 
thought. The past seemed to slip away; it had no 
power now to hold her. The present was strange; 
it had still a remote unreal aspect, but familiarity 
would alter that. In that first hour at Linfold she 
seemed to free herself from the old life of effort and 
strain, ambition and success. 

Jim, still touching her arm, led her to the sofa near 
the fire. She sank down amid its great cushions. 
Peter had followed them into the room, his hands 
in his pockets, his face expressing a bright indiffer¬ 
ence. But when he saw that gesture of his father’s 
—proud, proprietary and imbued with a tenderness 
of which he had hardly imagined him capable, a 
little stab of sharp pain was driven into his heart. 
A sense of deadly chill descended upon him, despite 
the almost enervating warmth of the room with its 
heavy fragrance of hot-house flowers. He glanced 
at Carina. How beautiful she was, all swathed in 
the dim dark richness of her furs. Such costly 
furs . . . she had loosened them a little, and he 
could see the pearls lying along the base of her 
throat. Her face under the close dark travelling 
hat was small and pale and colorless, but so finely, 
exquisitely drawn. The dark eyes under the thinly- 
pencilled long eyebrows ... the -curve of her 
mouth when she smiled ... the delicious sounds 
in her voice ... the glimpse of her bright 
hair. . . . No wonder his father loved her. 

She looked much more beautiful than she had done 


150 


CARINA 


last summer. She looked happier . . . yes, and 
younger. Young enough almost to be the daughter 
of the man who watched her with such adoring eyes. 
She walks in beauty like the night. . . . The 

words of the poem came back to Peter’s mind. There 
was something starry about her eyes; something of 
moonlight pallor in her skin. 

“Peter! You’re day-dreaming! Where are your 
manners?” Mallory’s voice, harsh and peremptory, 
cut the silence like a knife. “Here—give my wife 
something to eat! Hot scone or cake, Carina?” 

“Scone, please,” said Mrs. Mallory, a trifle 
startled by the abrupt change in her husband’s 
voice. 

Peter brought the plate of scones and handed them 
to her. He did not say a word. As he went back 
to replace the plate on the table Jim said: “Don’t 
encourage people to think you’re a young bar¬ 
barian.” 

“Jim, you’re not to scold Peter to-day,” said Car¬ 
ina. 

She smiled up at the boy, but he would not meet 
her glance. His face was now quite stony; all its 
bright nonchalance was gone; it seemed to have be¬ 
come petrified under the harsh rebuke. It was no 
good, so his thoughts now ran, no good her trying 
to make things better, since it was all her fault that 
they had become so impossibly horrible. She oughtn’t 
to be here at all, smiling at him, making fools of 
them both, with that sweetness of hers. . . . 

“Well, then he must take care not to deserve it,” 
said Mallory, in a slightly mollified tone. But he 
glanced sharply at his son as he spoke. He hoped 
that he wasn’t going to prove irreconcilable. There 
was, as he knew, a fundamental and rocky obstinacy 
about Peter that was difficult to check without resort 
to harsh measures. It was a pity Sophy hadn’t been 


CARINA 


151 

able to take him for a couple of days. His presence 
lent a touch of awkwardness, of constraint, to their 
home-coming. 

After tea the boy escaped from the room. He 
put on a coat, and went out into the winter dark¬ 
ness, unlit by moon or stars. There was a wind blow¬ 
ing in roughly now from the sea, making ceaseless 
music among the pines. He paced up and down 
the long avenue in the teeth of that strong wind, 
convulsed with the hot, terrible mutiny of youth. He 
hated Linfold, he hated his father’s wife, almost 
he hated his father, whose cold mercilessness he so 
dreaded, just as he dreaded the humiliating repeti¬ 
tion of his brutality. There was 110 gleam of light 
anywhere. The dark starless winter night pene¬ 
trated to his very soul. Tears poured down his 
cheeks and he did not attempt to restrain them. He 
felt like a wan restless phantom,, driven out from 
an abode of security, light, and joy that once had 
been so confidently his. ... 

It seemed to Peter that he had been walking up 
and down that pale spectral road for hours, his body 
light and tireless and imbued with a fierce energy; 
his soul heavy and tormented and exhausted with 
suffering. He adored his father; for years he had 
been all in all to him, and now he was to know only 
his harsh stern side, the side he feared. He was 
deposed from his ancient, honorable place. There 
was no room for him at Linfold now. He was mere¬ 
ly an obstacle in the way of his father’s perfect 
happiness with Carina. Peter sobbed with an un¬ 
restrained violence that had something childish in 
it. He was ashamed of his tears, yet wholly unable 

to check them. 

It began to rain. The wind shrieked in the trees. 
The calm had been of brief duration, and the storm 
had arisen again and was increasing along the coast. 


152 


CARINA 


Far off he could hear above the wind the distant 
thunder of the sea. Rain fell in torrents, and his 
uncovered hair was dripping with water that poured 
down his face in little streams, mingling with the 
tears. Suddenly, as he approached the house, he saw 
a side door open, and in the square of light thus 
produced, a figure detached itself in sharply-de¬ 
fined silhouette from the surrounding shadows. So 
they had missed him, and were coming out to look 
for him,. were they? It must be getting late—nearly 
dinner-time perhaps. . . . His father would be 

little likely to overlook any lack of punctuality to¬ 
night. Or it might be that his prolonged absence 
had made them nervous. . . . Sobered by the 

thought and perhaps a little ashamed of his own want 
of control, Peter drew nearer, and as he came quite 
close he saw that it was Carina who was standing 
there.. She was alone, her head was uncovered, and 
the wind was blowing the short bright hair about 
her brow. She had flung a fur cloak over her 
shoulders. 

“Peter. . .” she said. 

She spoke low, so low that what he heard seemed 
to him the mere echo of a sound. 

. He came up to her hesitatingly. She could see 
his young race all ravaged and distorted with weep¬ 
ing; the wan cheeks, the sunken eyes. 

He still lingered there, the light from the passage 
within illuminating his slender upright form 

“Peter—” she said again. 

There was something in her voice that drew him 
still reluctant to her side. She came out to meet him 
heedless of the wind and rain. She put out her hand 
and touched his. 

Dear Peter, she said, “I can’t bear to think 
you re so unhappy, and to feel that my being here 
is making you miserable.” 


CARINA 


i 53 

The boy stood like a frozen statue in front of her, 
watching her with tortured eyes. 

“You’d better tell my father, then, if you can’t 
bear it. He’ll beat me again,” said Peter hoarsely. 

Carina took his hand and held it in her soft warm 
fingers. 

“He shall never beat you again if I can prevent 
it,” she said. 

“You can’t prevent it. It’s because you’re here— 
and he thinks only of you!” 

“No—no—we shall both think of you. You mustn’t 
be left out. Peter—I want to be your friend. Won’t 
you believe it? I can’t bear to think you should look 
upon me as an enemy. I’ve never had enemies—” 
There was the least possible tremor in her voice. 
“Let us be friends and try to be happy together. 
It’s too late, you know,” and her voice broke into a 
little laugh that yet held something of sadness in 
it—“for me to go away!” 

He suffered her now to draw him toward the 
house. He did not try to resist. They stood facing 
each other in the long, brightly-lit passage. Carina 
closed the outer door, and to Peter there was some¬ 
thing subtly significant in the action, as if she were 
shutting away from him the menacing crushing dark¬ 
ness and storm of that wild winter night. 

“Peter, you’re fourteen, aren’t you? And I’m 
twenty-five. Let me be your elder sister. Don’t 
think of me as a stepmother. And will you call me 
Carina? I should like that. . . . 

“Yes,” he said. His voice was toneless. She 
meant to conquer him; she was conquering him with 
that invincible charm of hers. 

“Will you promise me to try to be happy?” 

“Yes—Carina.” He caught her hand suddenly 
and dragged it to his lips. She felt his tears falling 
thick and warm upon it. 


154 


CARINA 


Carina pulled him to her and kissed his forehead 
lightly. . Since his mother’s death no woman had 
kissed him except Miss Mallory, whose hard em¬ 
braces he regarded in the light of a penance that 
could not be foregone. But Carina’s kiss was a light 
butterfly thing—he wanted her to repeat it. 

She made a movement as if to leave him. He was 
quiet now and submissive; the danger was averted. 

“I’m going up to dress for dinner. It’s late, you 
know. And you’re drenched to the skin! Run up 
and change—your father doesn’t like to be kept wait¬ 
ing.” 

Peter was not proof against the definitely maternal 
solicitude of her manner. 

“You’ll be good, won’t you?” she whispered, and 
then she ran lightly along the passage and turned up 
the staircase that led to her room. He watched her 
till she was out of sight, half-ashamed of his own 
easy yielding, yet aware that it was complete and 
perhaps permanent. You couldn’t go hating any¬ 
one who spoke to you in the kind of voice that made 
you think of velvet, and who kissed you in that tender 
fashion, and urged you to be good.” Yes, in a few 
minutes his jealous hatred had turned to a queer 

ardent devotion. He would have died for Carina 
then. . . . 

She had quite convinced him that it did matter 
very much to her whether he were happy or the 
reverse, and she wanted passionately that he should 
share in her happiness, and that he shouldn’t be left 
out in the cold. 

' vent . U P t0 ^ ls room and began to dress. 

* ^ * lme that he was engaged in taking off his 
wet things and exchanging them for dry ones, he was 
lighting against this growing sense of devotion She 
was weaving spells for him, just as she had woven 
them for his father. He understood now why his 


CARINA 


i 55 


father had fallen so swiftly, so irrevocably in love 
with her. He thought of that day at Lord’s when 
he hadn’t been able to take his eyes off her. Carina 
had seemed cold and indifferent enough then, as if 
she cared little for the thing she had so easily won. 
But she had made a determined effort to win Peter’s 
affection. She had come out to him, hatless, in the 
storm and rain, like some beautiful benignant spirit. 
She had spoken tender words to heal his bruised re* 
bellious heart. She had quelled his fierce mutiny. She 
had kissed his forehead, -changing him from an enemy 
to a friend, with one touch, so to speak, of her wand. 
She had summoned him to her side out of the windy 
darkness, the beating rain. He had felt so cold and 
alone and broken-hearted, and she had surrounded 
him suddenly with warmth and joy and light. 

“I’d do simply anything on earth for her now,” 
he confessed to himself. “She was topping to me. 
She really seemed to care. She was unhappy 
too. 

Yes, it would be bad luck if he were to continue 
to spoil the perfection of their home-coming with 
his jealous temper. . . . 


CHAPTER XVI 


HERE were no traces of tears on his face when 



A he went downstairs into the drawing-room 
before dinner. During that meal a bright smiling 
Peter sat between his father and Carina. Carina 
was very gentle and attentive to him, drawing him 
out, making him talk. Jim, who knew nothing of 
what had passed between them, was secretly aston¬ 
ished at Peter’s swift capitulation. He breathed a 
sigh of relief. He wanted above all things to have 
peace in his house. And the boy’s surrender ap¬ 
peared to be quite genuine; there was no sign of con¬ 
straint in his manner, no suggestion of accomplish¬ 
ing a difficult task. His face brightened visibly when 
Carina spoke to him. 

Jim was delighted. He did not even reflect upon 
any possibly objectionable consequences of such an 
alliance. He was proud of both his possessions that 
first evening at Linfold. Carina was perfect in her 
manner of so tactfully managing Peter. And Peter 
was admirable—just what he wished his son to be, 
charming, intelligent, courteous. It struck him, too, 
that Carina was looking almost happier than he had 
ever seen her look before. She had entered upon 
her little kingdom, and that she appreciated it was 
plainly visible. No doubt she was conscious, too, of 
the harmony that surrounded them. And she had 
come into their intimate family life only to perfect 
it, to beautify it. Even Peter had had the sense to 
see this. 


“Do you ride?” Peter asked her. “Pll lend you 

156 


CARINA 157 

my horse—he’s a beauty and he’s often carried a 
lady. Dad’ll lend me something.” 

“Oh, but I haven’t ridden for ages,” said Carina, 
smiling. 

“I’ll see you don’t come to grief. And Dan—that’s 
my horse—is as quiet as a lamb!” 

Jim beamed upon them both. He was glad the 
suggestion had come so spontaneously from Peter. 
And in time, of course, if Carina really cared about 
it, she should have her own horse. They could ride 
together and have many a good gallop over the 
Downs. He wanted her to like the country, and 
the simple wholesome pleasures it offered. 

Carina was tired; she went up early to her room. 
When she bade them good-night she kissed Peter. 

“Good-night, Peter.” 

“Good-night, Carina,” he said shyly. 

“Peter!” remonstrated Jim, half in anger. 

“She said I might,” explained Peter. “You see, 
there’s nothing else I can call her.” 

“Please let him, Jim. I’d so much rather,” said 
Mrs. Mallory. The father and son stood facing 
her, and the sharp electric light illuminated the two 
faces. Peter, a slender stripling, already reached 
his father’s chin. He promised to surpass Jim in 
height; at present he gave one the impression that 
he had outgrown his strength. His black hair was 
brushed to a smooth sleek polish, while Jim’s was 
plentifully sprinkled with grey, but Carina'thought 
that once it must have been just like his sort’s. There 
was a likeness too in the shape of the eyes set deeply 
under black brows, and something too of resem¬ 
blance in the modelling of the nose. But Peter’s 
mouth and chin were weaker than his father’s, and 
much more delicately fashioned. Perhaps in those 
features he resembled his dead mother, just as he 
must have inherited his blue eyes from her. One 


CARINA 


158 

missed in him the hint of iron will, the dominating 
personality of his father, that made approach to Jim 
such a difficult precarious thing. 

“Very well,” said Jim, half reluctantly. “I think 
it’s cheek—but if you really wish it—Carina—” 

But later when he went up to his room he knocked 
at Carina’s door. She was alone, sitting by the fire, 
wrapped in a loose gown of pale green crepe. 

“May I come in, Carina?” 

“Yes. Come in.” She made room for him beside 
her on the sofa, and he slipped his arm about her. 

“You’re going to be happy here at Linfold?” he 
said. 

“So very happy, Jim.” 

“I’m so glad that Peter’s behaving decently. I 
thought I should have trouble with him when we 
first arrived.” 

Carina was silent. It seemed to him that the pres¬ 
sure of her body against his arm relaxed a little. 

“Poor Peter—” she said at last. 

“Oh, you mustn’t spoil him, darling. Don’t be 
too soft with him. He wants firm handling.” 

“Oh, I shan’t spoil him. But I want to make a 
friend of him.” 

# “Yes. That’s all very well, but you must keep 
him at a distance. He’s inclined to be cheeky. Don’t 
let him be too familiar. I’d almost rather you’d 
waited a little before asking him to call you Car¬ 
ina.” 

“I didn’t wait,” she said, “because I wanted to 
try to make friends with him at once. I felt that 
he was sore and hurt—he’s sensitive, you know— 
one can see that in his face. You must let me manage 
him in my own way, and you—” she looked up at 
him and smiled—“you can do all the firm-handling 
part, though I hope it won’t be necessary.” 

Jim kissed her. The firelight glancing on her hair 


CARINA 


i 59 


turned its warmth to living gold. She was very beau¬ 
tiful. 

“Very well, darling. Manage him in your own way. 
I’m sure you’ll do it beautifully, and anyhow I shall 
be there to see he doesn’t take advantage of your 
kindness!” 

“But, Jim—you must be very kind to him too— 
just to show him that nothing’s really altered between 
you. He hasn’t got a mother to take his part. I 
know what that means, because I missed all that 
tenderness in my own life. My mother died when 
we were very little, and yet I can remember crying 
for her. So you mustn’t be too stern—too 
harsh. . . 




Mallory would have promised her anything at 
that moment. 

“I’ll try not to be. We’ve always been tremend¬ 
ous friends—Peter and I. Even when he was quite 
small he was such a game little chap! I’m proud 
of my son—but I want to make a man of him.” 

“He’s such a dear boy, Jim. And I’m sure he’ll 
be a splendid man,” she said. 

“Ah, don’t spoil him, Carina,” he entreated. “You 
mustn’t make things too soft for either of us, you 
know!” 

“I must win his affection first. And then I’ll trv 
to be a stern stepmother!” 


Christmas was at hand, and when she thought of 
the approaching Feast, Carina felt a sense of dis¬ 
mayed anxiety. She wished, of course, to go to Lin- 
town for Midnight Mass, but Jim would probably— 
and even reasonably—object to keeping the car out 
half the night. She could have arranged to sleep 
at a convent in the town, but this was also a proposal 
that would hardly be likely to meet with his ap¬ 
proval. She therefore deferred the question, which 



i6o 


CARINA 


rather preoccupied her, until the morning of Christ¬ 
mas Eve when it became pressingly necessary to 
settle it. 

She did not even know if Peter were yet aware 
that she was a Catholic. He had not, after all, been 
present at their wedding, which had been celebrated 
very quietly, and in the announcement of the event 
Jim had sent to the newspapers, all mention of the 
church had been purposely omitted. She divined 
therefore, rather than knew, that Mallory intended 
to keep his son in ignorance as long as possible. 

Carina went down to her husband’s study directly 
she was dressed that morning. She found him alone 
immersed in letters and newspapers. 

“Are you very busy, Jim? May I come and disturb 
you?” 

“You may!” He sprang up and drew her nearer 
to the fire. “It’s cold to-day. Ten degrees of frost 
last night! I shouldn’t be surprised if we had snow 
before the day’s out.” 

“Shouldn’t you? I hope not. You see, Jim, I 
want to go in to Lintown to-night for Midnight 
Mass. . . .” 

“Midnight Mass!” he repeated. 

“Yes. Would it be very inconvenient? I could hire 
something, you know, to take me in, if you don’t 
want the car to be out so late.” 

“But why not go to Mass at eleven on Christmas 
morning? That would be much easier. . . .” 

“No—that wouldn’t do at all. I want to go to 
Holy Communion, Jim. God has been so good to 
us, I want to thank Him.” 

God has been so good to us. . . . The simple 

words impressed him more than he liked to think. 
“Oh, my dear—when you put it like that!—” he ex¬ 
claimed. 

“I couldn’t put it in any other way,” she answered, 


CARINA 


161 

touching his hand with her own. He drew his hand 
away quickly, as if just then he wished to avoid 
the contact. He knew that her touch weakened him. 

There was a little pause, and then he said: 

“You’ve asked me for something that isn’t quite 
easy. . . .” 

“Yes,” she acquiesced, “that was why I was a cow¬ 
ard and put it off till now. . . .” 

She sat there, gazing into the fire. The day was 
cold, and she had draped a shawl of golden-colored 
Venetian silk about her shoulders. It made a bright 
patch of color in the sober room. 

“You see—in my position—” He stopped. “It’s 
awkward, you know. And there’s Peter—” 

“Peter has nothing to do with it.” 

“He’ll ask all sorts of questions. Boys of that 
age are horribly inquisitive.” 

“Well, he must know the truth sooner or later. I 
shouldn’t be surprised if he knew it already. You 
can’t go on keeping him in the dark.” 

Carina’s voice was decisive. The situation was 
really so simple, so clearly defined, that she wondered 
why Jim should voluntarily invest it with ambiguous 
complications and unnecessary secrecy. 

“I was thinking perhaps it would be easier if I 
were to stay at the convent at Lintown just for the 
night. I should be back here on Christmas Day in 
time for luncheon.” 

“Oh, I can’t have you racing off to convents,” he 
assured her. 

He was aware that whatever was done, it must be 
done openly, with his consent and approval. People 
must see that he took her religion for granted, and 
made adequate provision for her to practise it. He 
owed this to Carina. It was the first step that was 
so disagreeable and difficult. 

Above all, the question must he discussed tern- 


CARINA 


162 

perately between them. Ever since their quarrel in 
Rome, with its subsequent reconciliation, his wife 
had been assiduous in avoiding any mention of topics 
likely to lead to angry or acrimonious discussion. She 
had been faultlessly tactful, and he was aware that 
only the extreme urgency of the moment had forced 
her to come to him now with this petition on her lips. 
And ultimately, of course, he knew that he wasn’t 
in a position to refuse. His promises forbade him 
to put any obstacle in the way of her practising her 
religion. Jim’s attitude toward his promises was at 
once fastidiously honorable and passionately resent¬ 
ful. They were there; he had made them; he intend¬ 
ed scrupulously to abide by them, but in doing so he 
realized enviously that he had to deal with problems 
which didn’t enter into the lives and calculations of 
normal Englishmen. He wished to be perfectly fair 
and just, and yet to do nothing that was exaggerated 
or not strictly entailed by the letter of his bond. 

“Jim, won’t you let me settle it myself? I mean 
—I can hire a car and be quite independent. I should 
be back about three, and I could lie in bed late on 
Christmas morning.” 

“No. If you go at all you must have my car. I 
can’t trust you to a hireling. Carina . . . you 

couldn’t give up this idea just for once, could you?” 

“The only alternative would be my going in for 
the eight o’clock Mass on Christmas day. You know, 
Jim—I’ve always been accustomed to go to Mass 
every morning—it’s the one thing I do miss so ter¬ 
ribly here.” 

“Do you?” he said. He had been aware of her 
slipping out every morning before he was up, during 
their sojourn abroad. And knowing that she must 
have gone to church, he had forborne to question 
her. 

She kept it out of sight as much as possible—he 


CARINA 


163 

was obliged in justice to acknowledge that She 
wasn’t, to use Mr. Humphrey’s odious word, 
“noisy.” But she had rights, and he had vowed to 
protect them. He said presently: 

“I can’t decide it offhand, Carina. You must give 
me time to think it over. But I’ll settle something.” 
Bending he kissed the top of her head where the red- 
gold hair grew thick and crisp like a boy’s. “I’ll let 
you know as soon as possible. Of course, Peter’ll 
have to be told one of these days, and it had better 
come about quite naturally.” 

Carina felt herself dismissed. She rose and went 
out of the room, relieved to think that the interview 
was over, the petition made. And Jim had received 
it without the slightest manifestation of anger or im¬ 
patience. His temperate conduct had astonished her. 
It showed her that he was prepared to be reasonable, 
to make concessions. 

It was an hour later when he came up to her sit¬ 
ting-room, which was next to her bedroom on the first 
floor, and had a charming view over the Park with 
blue glimpses of the sea between the trees. The re¬ 
cent storms had driven some sea-gulls inland, and 
she could see the white patches they made in the 
brown ploughed fields beyond the sunk fence to the 
east. 

“I’ll run you in myself, Carina,” he said. “Peter 
will be in bed at that hour. And, anyhow, I couldn’t 
have you going in alone. Will that do?” 

She had risen and come toward him with shining 
eyes. 

“Do? Why, it’s the most beautiful plan in the 
world. I never dreamed of your coming, Jim! How 
dear of you to think of it.” 

Jim’s face twitched with a kind of wry pleasure. 
This was the sugar at the bottom of the cup. Still, 
it was very sweet to watch her eager delight. To 


164 


CARINA 


have her coming up close to him with her face up¬ 
lifted. He kissed her and said: 

“When you come to me like that, it’s difficult to 
refuse you anything.” 

Yes, she weakened him. . . . Sooner or 

later Peter would have to know the full extent of 
his weakness where Carina was concerned. Peter 
was of an inquiring mind; he would naturally wish 
to discover all that marrying a Catholic entailed. 
Jim felt that when that day came, he would inevit¬ 
ably lose prestige in his son’s estimation. 

“What time shall you want to start?” 

“A little before eleven—if you could manage that, 
Jim.” 

“Of course I can manage it. I shan’t take Jones.” 

“Thank you, Jim.” 

Her eyes were very bright. Of all the solutions 
of the little problem, this one the best and most beau¬ 
tiful of all, had never occurred to her, even re¬ 
motely. It was wonderful. When Jim gave he cer¬ 
tainly gave royally, without stint or measure. 

Nothing was said during dinner about the pro¬ 
posed expedition to Lintown, and it was obviously 
a relief to Jim when Peter, soon after the termina¬ 
tion of the meal, began to yawn, and declared that 
a long day’s golf had made him sleepy. Jim advised 
him to go to bed, and he readily complied. 

“Shall you mind walking down to the garage?” 
Jim inquired, when Peter had left the room. 

“Not in the least. It’s quite a fine night,” she an¬ 
swered. 

The garage was a couple of hundred yards away 
from the house. 

“I ... I don’t want to wake Peter,” said Mall¬ 
ory. 

Carina waited a moment. Then she said: 


CARINA 165 

“But you’ll tell him soon? I do so hate se¬ 
crets. . 

“So do I,” agreed Jim. “I’ve never known what 
a coward I was till lately. I never used to care two¬ 
pence what people said or thought!’’ 

“And must you care now? she asked him. 

“Yes. I can’t help caring now. I suppose it’s be¬ 
cause I know I’m in the wrong. . . .” His face 

clouded over; he looked almost sad. 

“Some day perhaps you’ll come to see that you 
were right,” she said softly. 

“I don’t think that time will ever come,” he an¬ 
swered. 

It was a very dark night, and Jim carried a lantern 
down to the garage. Once he glanced back at the 
house, but Peter’s window showed nothing but dark¬ 
ness. The boy was evidently in bed and asleep. But 
Carina was right. He must be told, and told soon. 
Jim dreaded the effect it would have upon him, es¬ 
pecially now that Carina had so completely won his 
heart. She had only been in the house four days, 
yet already they seemed like intimate comrades, and 
Jim feared that to reveal Carina’s religion to Peter 
would awaken an immediate interest in it in his mind. 
He would probably ask Carina innumerable ques¬ 
tions; he might even wish to study the subject. But 
he would realize, too, the accurate measure of his 
father’s surrender where Carina was concerned. It 
would inevitably strengthen his own position should 
he ever develop “leanings.” Jim’s thoughts were very 
far from being agreeable or pleasant ones during 
that dark journey into Lintown that night. The only 
thing that consoled him lay jn the knowledge that 
he was giving Carina something she wished for very 
much indeed. It would have been churlish to refuse 
her anything this first Christmas she was to spend 
as his wife. He had a lovely diamond ring to give 


166 


CARINA 


her on the morrow, but he knew she wouldn’t value 
it half as much as the thing he was doing for her 
now. 

Carina, wrapped in dark furs that almost hid her 
face, sat beside him on their long silent journey to 
Lintown. The great lamps of the car illuminated 
the spectral-looking road in front of them, in swift 
flashes. Brown hedges reared their dark shapes on 
either side, and in the far distance they could see 
across a gulf of impenetrable gloom the massed 
lights of Lintown burning steadily if a little dimly. 
The crisp wash of the surf sounded like a dim 
rhythmic accompaniment, growing more emphatic 
as they neared the coast and felt the cold buffet of 
the sea-wind against their faces. 

The hour was a wonderful one for Carina. She 
had envisaged for the first time that day the pos¬ 
sibility of her husband’s conversion. Up till now, 
it had seemed impossible to break through those 
great barriers of ancient, inherited prejudice. But 
his, “When you come to me like that, it’s difficult to 
refuse you anything—” had taught her in some 
measure the extent of her own hold over him. But 
he would have difficult days of fighting and resistance 
to live through first, and she was not sure that he 
would have strength for the bitter little struggle that 
all converts have to face. 

They entered the church together. He knelt or 
stood by her side throughout the three Masses, fol¬ 
lowing each other without interval and in rapid suc¬ 
cession, which every priest is permitted to offer on 
Christmas Day. Jim read the respective Epistles 
and Gospels in a little book Carina lent him. Once 
he caught sight of the priest’s face and recognized 
him as Father Pemberton, whom he had consulted 
last summer, and from whom he had learned the 
exact conditions he would have to fulfil before Car- 


CARINA 


167 


ina could obtain the necessary dispensation for their 
marriage. That surrender had required courage, 
but looking down upon his wife now as she knelt 
so near him in all the wonder of her beauty, he told 
himself that had they been ten thousand times as 
hard he would still have made those promises in 
order to win her for his wife. He recovered some¬ 
thing of the thrilling happiness he had savored on 
the Sunday that had preceded their engagement. 

But when he saw Carina rise and move slowly 
toward the altar with bent head and folded hands, 
he had his first complete and vivid realization of the 
gulf that divided them. She could never cross it to 
reach him, and any movement toward their spiritual 
union which could be effected must necessarily come 
from his side. In his weakness then, in his love 
which seemed daily to become a deeper and more 
vital emotion so that he could no longer conceive of 
a life in which she had no share, he could almost have 
believed this solution of the problem to come within 
the range of possibilities. . . . 

He roused himself. He had gone as far as he 
dared already in the matter of capitulation. There 
were hours when he could still tell himself that 
he had gone beyond what he considered right. But 
at that hour, in that place, when he felt himself 
to be wandering like a forlorn uneasy ghost 
on the outskirts of wonderful and transcendental 
happenings, he felt that he had it within him to do 
this thing and break down the spiritual barrier that 
divided them. 

All his life he was to remember that night at Lin- 
town, when he stood or knelt beside Carina at Mid¬ 
night Mass. He listened to her voice when she 
joined in the singing of the Adeste Fideles, and 
thought it held a marvellous sweetness. He felt no 
impatience to go away, but permitted himself to yield 


168 CARINA 

to the emotional appeal the ceremony was making 
to him. 

Afterward the remembrance of that moment of 
diminished resistance made him resolve anew that 
never while he could help it should Peter be exposed 
to that appeal, that influence which the Catholic 
Church was able to extend, even to outsiders, to 
strangers, like himself. . . . 


CHAPTER XVII 


C ARINA had not yet appeared on Christmas 
morning when Jim and Peter met in the hall, 
ready to start forth on their walk to Linfold Church. 
“Come along,” said Jim. 

Peter looked startled. “Aren’t you going to wait 
for Carina?” 

“No,” said Mallory, “she isn’t coming. . . 

They went out into the garden. There was a 
short cut across the Park to the little village of Lin¬ 
fold, where the church was situated. Peter’s face 
had fallen a little; he was frankly disappointed. He 
had been thinking how jolly it would be to have 
Carina there, sitting perhaps with his father on one 
side and himself on the other. 

“Is she ill?” he inquired. 

“No. She’s tired this morning, but that isn’t the 
reason. The fact is, Peter, your stepmother is a 
Roman Catholic. When she goes to church she goes 
to Lin town.” 

“Oh, I see,” said Peter. “I never thought of that. 
We’ve got one or two Catholics at Eton. One of 
them’s rather a pal of mine.” 

He swung along by his father’s side. Mallory’s 
black brows were knitted across his face. It had 
been an effort to him to make the little confession, 
and he was grateful to Peter for accepting it so 
simply. 

“It would have been jolly if she could have come 
with us. I’d been looking forward to it,” said the 
boy presently. 


169 


CARINA 


170 

“Yes,” said Mallory, “we should both have liked 
to have her.” He kept his eyes fixed straight in 
front of him. 

But the service that day in Linfold Church had 
lost its savor for him. He couldn’t recapture that 
touch of glowing faith which at midnight and for 
an hour afterward had been so surely his, bringing 
him so close to Carina even while it exposed before 
his eyes the immense gulf that divided them. Mr. 
Humphreys’ scholarly address lacked the precision 
of dogma, the touch of authority, that had empha¬ 
sized Father Pemberton’s brief discourse to his flock 
in Lintown. The choir sang admirably, but he pre¬ 
ferred to listen to Carina’s sweet voice joining in the 
Adeste Fideles. There was something lacking, and 
hitherto Linfold had amply satisfied his spiritual 
needs. Once or twice he moved restlessly in his seat. 
It was getting late. Really, Humphreys ought to 
know when to stop. . . . 

Civility imposed the necessity of remaining behind 
for a few minutes after the service was over, and 
greeting the rector and his family. Jim expressed 
the conventional good wishes of the season, spoke 
to the two elder boys who were rather younger than 
Peter, and inquired after the health of Mrs. Humph¬ 
reys, who had not yet recovered from the birth of 
her sixth child. 

“I suppose,” said Mr. Humphreys, “that your 
wife hardly felt she could worship with us to-day?” 

It was an ill-judged remark, and Jim answered 
rather brusquely: 

“No. Catholics never do worship anywhere except 
in their own churches.” 

“Ah, Rome, Rome!” said the rector, shaking his 
head. “But she’ll have to come into line one of 
these days, Mallory. It’s her attitude that prevents 
reunion, and we’re all crying out for that, you know. 


CARINA 


171 

Vox populi .... Rome will have to give way.” 

Jim was silent. He especially disliked to discuss 
the matter in front of Peter, who was listening with 
a breathless attention. 

“And one knows that their dissensions are far 
worse than ours. They’re not allowed to come to 
the surface, and with us, of course, our right of pri¬ 
vate judgment enables us to express our divergen¬ 
cies with a wholesome frankness. That’s much bet¬ 
ter than keeping one’s dissensions seething at the 
bottom of the cauldron. They won’t admit it, but 
one knows. Onlookers see most of the game, you 
know, Mallory!” 

Mallory maintained a cold silence. Carina had 
not yet been introduced to the Humphreys family, 
partly on account of the temporary indisposition of 
the rector’s wife. Now he resolved to defer the in¬ 
troduction as long as possible. 

Mr. Humphreys, perceiving his unwillingness to 
discuss the question, said in a more genial tone: 

“Well, Peter, you’ll be a candidate for confirma¬ 
tion soon, I suppose? Why, you’re older than 
Jack, and he was confirmed last year. Don’t put it 
off, my dear boy—and if you want any help—” 

“Oh, they’ll see to that at Eton when the time 
comes. There’s no hurry,” interposed Mallory. 

The rector tried again. He had known Jim for 
many years, and had had experience of his queer tem¬ 
per, his fits of moodiness. No doubt something had 
gone a little wrong at the Park this morning—he 
must expect that with a Catholic wife. 

“Isn’t Miss Mallory with you this year?” 

“No—she’s in London. I hoped she would be 
here, but she’s had a touch of influenza. . . .” 

“Ah, she’s wise to avoid the country, then, at this 
season. A cold night, last night, Mallory. I don’t 


172 


CARINA 


\ 


know if you looked out, but it was as dark as pitch, 
and there were five degrees of frost.” 

“Oh, I didn’t think it was as cold as that,” said 
Mallory, uncomfortably. To tell the truth, he had 
not been conscious of cold during the drive to and 
from Lintown. His thoughts had been far too deep¬ 
ly occupied with Carina and her religion, to permit 
him to realize physical conditions. 

“Well, Peter, we must push off,” he said, turning 
to his son. 

They walked home almost in silence. But as they 
drew near to the house Mallory said in a slightly 
constrained tone: 

“I think Mr. Humphreys was right. You ought 
to be thinking of your confirmation. You’ll be fifteen 
in the spring. I must write about it.” 

“Oh, lots of boys much younger than I am have 
been confirmed,” said Peter, cheerfully. “I say, 
Dad, where does Carina go to church?” 

“Lintown,” answered Mallory curtly. 

“I’d like to go with her one of these days. I’ve 
never been to a Catholic service.” 

“No—I’d rather you didn't do anything of the 
kind. You must remember your obligations, and not 
trifle with such a serious subject. This living is in 
my gift, and one of these days it’ll be in yours. Your 
mother and I were both Protestants. . . He 

paused and then added, “Religious controversies are 
very dangerous things, and you must keep clear of 
them.” There was a hint of reproof in his tone. 

“Oh, I only meant I should like to go with Car¬ 
ina,” said Peter, somewhat abashed. He had had 
no intention of calling down such heavy artillery to 
demolish the position, and it struck him that his 
father was somewhat exaggerating the significance 
of his speech. “Because, you see, she can’t come 
with us,” he added. 


CARINA 


i73 


“No—she can’t come with us,” acquiesced Jim. It 
seemed to him, since he had heard Midnight Mass 
at Lintown, that Carina was calling to him from the 
opposite bank of a wide river. It needed all his 
strength to resist that appeal, and he was resolved 
that Peter should never hear it. 

It had given him a shock to realize, while the 
rector was speaking, that he himself was viewing the 
question, even if ever so reluctantly, from the other 
side. He must learn to stiffen his defences, to make 
them absolutely secure against the almost irresistible 
appeal of Carina. She was so young—a mere girl 
—it was absurd. . . . But when he thought of 

her going up to the Communion rails with folded 
hands and bent head, he felt a renewal of anguish 
at their ultimate spiritual separation. 

She was waiting for them on the doorstep as they 
came up to the house. 

“I saw you from the window,” she said; “what 
ages you’ve been. A happy Christmas, Peter.” She 
kissed him—it was the first time she had done so 
since the night of her arrival. 

Jim watched them, but his pleasure in their friend¬ 
ship was touched with a little fear. Peter was so 
young—so impressionable. He had his mother’s 
sensitive temperament. It would be so easy for Car¬ 
ina to influence him. . . . 

“Dad’s been telling me you’re a Roman Catholic,” 
said Peter; “I was awfully disappointed at first to 
find that you weren’t coming with us this morning, 
till he explained it to me. We had quite a lecture 
from old Humphreys on the subject of Rome’s at¬ 
titude toward reunion. He thinks you’re all wrong, 
you know,” and he laughed gaily. 

Jim judged it better to say nothing. But his own 
fears were adumbrated anew in his son’s words. He 
followed Carina into the house. 


174 


CARINA 


“Don’t talk to him about it more than you can 
help, Carina,” Jim said to her when they were alone 
together just before luncheon. “He said something 
about wanting to go with you to church one day, but 
I couldn’t have that, you know. I didn’t tell him that 
I went with you last night—I thought it better not. 
I couldn’t explain all my reasons to him. So if he 
ever says anything to you about going, you must 
refuse to allow it.” 

A slight shadow fell over her face. Last night 
she had cherished such hopes of winning Jim. Now 
his thoughts were obviously preoccupied with fears 
for his son. 

“Of course, Peter must obey you,” she answered. 

“Yes. I shouldn’t like him to be exposed to— 
temptation, at his age!” 

“Temptation . . .” she repeated. 

“Well, you know what I mean, Carina.” 

Peter came into the room. 

“If the frost holds, we shall be skating on the lake 
in a couple of days,” he said cheerfully. “Can you 
skate, Carina?” 

“No,” said Mrs. Mallory. 

“Oh, you must learn. It’s simply ripping. And 
Dad and I will hold you up—we wouldn’t let you 
come to grief, would we, Dad?” He appealed to 
his father. 

“You mustn’t bother your stepmother,” said Jim. 
He invariably called Carina “your stepmother” when 
speaking of her to Peter. It sounded so much less 
familiar than Carina. He still rather disliked to 
hear her name on Peter’s lips. It seemed to put them 
ori such a level, and encouraged Peter to forget the 
difference in their respective ages. Carina, however, 
had seemed to wish it and he had given in. He 
couldn’t always be objecting and forbidding—the role 


CARINA 


i75 


was such a thankless one. He must only put his foot 
down when serious matters were involved. 

The letters were brought in, and Jim, after ex¬ 
tracting two from among the heap for his wife, pro¬ 
ceeded to glance at his own correspondence. Pres¬ 
ently he gave a slight groan. 

“What’s the matter?” inquired Carina, looking 
up from the perusal of Lady Murray’s letter. 

“Sophia’s written to say that she’s much better, 
and would like to come down early in the New 
Year.” 

He looked quite crestfallen. They were so happy 
together, just the three of them, and Sophia’s advent 
foretold tempest, like the sudden irruption of a 
stormy petrel. She almost always upset Peter . . . . 

“Oh, well, we must have her, then,” said Carina. 
“She mustn’t feel that anything’s altered. Besides, 
we ought to get to know each other better. I haven’t 
seen her since we were married.” 

“She always stops a jolly long time,” said Jim. 
“And it seems she’s let her house, so she’ll probably 
stay longer than usual.” He flung down the letter 
with an irritable gesture. It was a comfort, how¬ 
ever, to feel that Sophia hadn’t been a witness of his 
tame surrender of last night. She would certainly 
have had a few words to say on the subject, might 
even have given a hint to Humphreys. . . . 

“Peter, your aunt’s coming next week,” he said, 
as his son came into the room. 

“Oh, help!” said Peter irreverently. “Does Car¬ 
ina know her?” 

“Yes—they met in the summer, before we were 
engaged,” said Jim. 

“We must make the most of the next few days,” 
said Peter, sagaciously. “When’s she coming?” 

“On the second.” 

“How long for?” 


iy6 


CARINA 


“She doesn’t say.” 

“Catch her going before the end of the holidays, 
then,” said Peter, in a more dejected tone. Then 
he added: “But I shan’t be in such a funk of her, 
now I’ve got Carina to take my part!” 

The smile he bestowed upon Carina then was full 
of a frank, confident friendship. Jim intercepted it. 
He thought: “I must make it quite clear to Carina 
that there’s always one way in which she mustn’t 
influence him.” 

He had perceived the possible danger, and of 
course it woulcf be quite easy to avert it. He had 
only to tell her quite frankly. He would show her 
that he wasn’t in any sense against her religion, but 
that Peter would inherit certain duties and obliga¬ 
tions, and he couldn’t permit anything to interfere 
with his proper observance of them. 

Humphreys had probably also foreseen the same 
danger, else why should he have spoken to Peter this 
morning on the subject of his confirmation? The 
rector had always considered it a great risk for Mall¬ 
ory to marry a young Roman Catholic wife. It 
was like gratuitously introducing a dangerous ele¬ 
ment into his house, he had frankly informed him. 

He was afraid that Jim would regret it bitterly in 
the years to come. 

Carina, who knew nothing of her husband’s per¬ 
plexing thoughts, always considered her first Christ¬ 
mas Day at Linfold as the very happiest she had 
ever spent. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


B ETWEEN Christmas and the New Year there 
was a fall of snow, and Carina took advantage 
of the inclement weather to unpack her books which 
had been sent down from London. With the help 
of Peter, who had volunteered to assist her, she was 
busily arranging them on the shelves which ran 
round two sides of the wall of her sitting room to 
the height of about four feet. 

Peter took the books out of the great packing 
cases, released them from their wrappings, and 
handed them to Carina. 

“I say, what a lot of books! It’s awfully queer to 
think of your being so fond of them. Dad always 
thinks he’s wasting his time if he stays indoors, and 
as for slacking over a book, I believe he’d say it 
was wrong.” 

“I’ve always been fond of them,” said Carina. 
“Is that poetry? I want all the poetry on this side.” 

Her books were daintily bound, many of them in 
white vellum decorated with gold tooling, that on 
that grey day seemed to offer a kind of dim illumina¬ 
tion. 

“Yes—those big ones now, please. These large 
shelves will take them all comfortably. Don’t they 
look nice, Peter? I’ve never had so much room for 
my books before!” 

She took an almost childish pleasure in recovering 
them after so long a separation. 

Presently the boy held out a volume, rather shyly. 

“This is yours, Carina, Love among the Ruins 

177 


CARINA 


178 

. . . . I’d like most awfully to read it, if you’ll 

lend it to me.” 

“Hadn’t you better ask your father?” said Car¬ 
ina, hesitatingly. 

“I’m not a girl!” Peter reddened indignantly up 
to the roots of his smooth black hair. “He never 
interferes with my reading—never asks me about it 
even. Besides, what does he know about it? He 
never opens a book himself unless it’s a Badminton 

• 1 % S Cf 

or a sporting novel. 

There was just a tinge of contempt in his voice. 
Peter had successfully concealed from his father his 
own passion for reading. Biography, poetry, travel 
—his range had included all these, but as yet he had 
no particular liking for fiction beyond Captain 
Marryat and some translations of Dumas. 

“Well—I really don’t know. I suppose you may 
have it,” said Carina, still doubtfully. 

The book undoubtedly had a religious tendency, 
but it was not a definitely Catholic novel like The 
Conversion of Claude, which was now in its fifth edi¬ 
tion. She could keep that out of his sight, but she 
considered it best to satisfy his curiosity by letting 
him read Love among the Ruins. 

An hour passed, and then Carina flung herself, 
flushed and exhausted, upon the sofa. 

“I can’t do any more now,” she declared. “Thank 
you very much for all your help.” 

“We might finish this afternoon,” said Peter. 

“Yes. If your father doesn’t want to go any¬ 
where.” 

“Oh, it won’t be fit for motoring,” said Peter. 

He went up to his room, taking Carina’s book 
with him. Before his return home he had fully 
made up his mind never to read any of “that 
woman’s tosh.” He was a little ashamed when he 
remembered that resolve, especially in the light of 


CARINA 


179 


his new devotion to 'her. He had an immense 
curiosity to learn more of her, to see what kind of 
book she would write. She was so sweet to him, and 
he could never forget her coming out to him in the 
wind and storm of that winter’s night. Ever since 
then, she had been like a charming elder sister to him, 
and then his father had never been so decent to him 
before. Her coming to Linfold had made for peace; 
it was ripping, having her there. The house never 
seemed dull now. He rode with her, walked with 
her, and was even half inclined to resent it when his 
father claimed her. 

Peter curled himself up in an armchair, wrapped 
in a travelling rug, for he had no fire in his room. 
He settled down to enjoy Carina’s book. Perhaps 
it wouldn’t prove to be “much in his line,” but he 
was loyally prepared to make allowances. He be¬ 
came rapidly absorbed, and the luncheon gong 
sounded upon unheeding ears. Presently he heard 
a knock at the door, and a servant appeared to tell 
him that luncheon was ready, and his father had sent 
for him. > 

He gave a hasty dab to his hair, and then ran 
down the stairs, leaping like a young chamois. Mall¬ 
ory was strict about such matters as order and punc¬ 
tuality, but perhaps he wouldn’t say much to-day 
with Carina there. 

When he entered the dining-room, they were al¬ 
ready sitting at table. Jim addressed him sharply. 

“You’re ten minutes late! Where are your man¬ 
ners? What have you been doing? If this happens 
again, you shall go without your lunch. And you 
haven’t washed your hands.” 

Unpacking had indeed left its evil traces upon 
Peter’s unwashed fingers. He regarded them rue¬ 
fully. 


i8o 


CARINA 


“I’m awfully sorry, Dad.” He took his seat at 
the table. “I didn’t hear the gong.” 

“You must have been engaged in a most engross™ 
ing occupation,” said Mallory, sarcastically. “May 
I inquire the nature of it?” 

“I was reading one of Carina’s books,” said Peter, 
sulkily. 

He was old enough to dislike being taken to task 
before the servants, and Carina’s presence lent an ad¬ 
ditional sting to the proceedings. 

Jim looked slightly startled. He glanced at his 
wife, but Carina was looking at Peter. 

“Oh, you’re altogether too young to read novels, 
Peter. And it’s great waste of time at your age.” 

“Too young? Why, I’ve read simply hundreds!” 

“I hope that is an exaggeration. And you should 
have asked my permission about reading any novel 
that you may find in this house.” 

Carina felt her husband’s annoyance in every 
nerve. 

“Carina lent it to me,” said Peter, “and it’s a 
ripping book—I remember now, a fellow at Eton 
told me about it, and said Carina was famous!” He 
looked acrpss the table at Carina with a frank, en¬ 
gaging smile. “He was awfully interested, Dad, 
when he heard you were going to marry her.” 

Jim’s silence was slightly menacing. Fortunately 
the servants had all left the room, or he would have 
found means to check Peter’s speech. The impertin¬ 
ence of discussing his marriage in this way! And 
that Carina should be called famous —offensive 
word! And why should she lend one of her novels 
to Peter? Was she going to try to effect his conver¬ 
sion by this means? Again he looked at her. 

Carina sat there, pale and controlled, as if she had 
no. interest in the acrimonious discussion that had 
arisen between father and son. She had not spoken 


CARINA 


181 


once since Peter’s entrance. It was evident she in¬ 
tended to take no part in the matter. She watched 
them coolly. 

“Which book was it?” asked jim. 

“Love among the Ruins ” answered Peter. 

“I forbid you to read it. You are to bring it to 
me directly after lunch,” said Jim. 

The words startled his two hearers. Carina flushed 
and then turned pale. She felt her limbs trembling 
a little. But her lips were compressed, and she 
showed little sign of the anger and agitation that so 
fiercely possessed her. Jim’s speech had both in¬ 
sulted and wounded her. 

“Do you hear me, Peter?” 

“Yes, Dad.” 

That his father was really far more angry than 
he cared to show, was apparent to Peter, who knew 
his every mood by heart. But he did not quite under¬ 
stand why his action had aroused that anger. He had 
really done nothing. He couldn’t quite see why his 
father should not be glad and proud to let him read 
Carina’s books. For it was certainly not his un- 
punctuality that was now eliciting this outburst of 
wrath—that had only been the first slight origin of 
the storm, which would have normally subsided after 
the first reprimand. And he hadn’t broken any rule 
by reading the book. There w r as no rule against 
“novel-reading,” nor indeed against reading in any 
form, principally because Jim believed his boy to be 
as indifferent to books as he was himself. Disobedi¬ 
ence always aroused his father’s anger, but in this 
instance Peter could not see that he had been dis¬ 
obedient. 

In his heart the boy felt a little revolt against his 
father’s tyranny. He was no longer able to accept 
it with a child’s simplicity in its recognition of author¬ 
ity. He was getting too old, he told himself, to be 


CARINA 


182 

scolded and knocked about; he was beginning to 
resent the discipline to which he was subjected. But 
the episode in London last summer had revived his 
fear of his father’s physical violence, and he was 
careful to give no outward manifestation of rebel- 
lion. 

He was convinced, too, that his father’s words 
had wounded Carina. She had not said a word, but 
he felt that her silence was an admission of pain. 

Some minutes of acute tension passed, and then 
Mallory with an effort began to speak of other 
things. He wondered if the weather would permit 
of their motoring. He was anxious to go with Car¬ 
ina and return Lady Chiltern’s call. They had not as 
yet met, for Carina had been out on the occasion of 
Lady Chiltern’s visit. The Chilterns were among 
his oldest friends in the neighborhood—there had 
been a time when gossip had coupled his name with 
that of Blanche Chiltern, the eldest and only un¬ 
married daughter. Such a suitable match, for she 
was a little past her first youth .... 

Carina answered when he addressed her, but her 
voice was constrained and cold. She had felt keenly 
that her husband’s anger had been directed not only 
against Peter but against herself. Any allusion to 
her writing aroused his wrath. But surely he would 
have warned her if he had not wished Peter to read 
her books. Meeting an author almost always creates 
a temporary curiosity to read what he or she has 
written. And she could so easily have hidden her 
novels from Peter had he expressed any wish on the 
subject. She might have said, too, in self-exculpa¬ 
tion, that she had advised him to ask his father’s per¬ 
mission before reading Love among the Ruins. But 
that would have been perhaps to invite him to con¬ 
centrate the whole of his anger upon Peter, and as 
it was she felt sorry for the boy. 


f 


CARINA 


183 

She was in the library with Jim as usual after 
luncheon when Peter came in with flushed face and 
shining eyes. 

He held the book in his hand, and laid it on the 
table near his father. 

“I’m sorry, Dad. I’d no idea you wouldn’t like 
me to read it. Carina said I’d better ask your per¬ 
mission first. But you’ve never interfered with my 
reading.” 

Carina’s presence gave him courage. He felt 
much less afraid of his father when she was there. 

“In future you will kindly ask me,” said Jim. 
“And next time your stepmother is good enough to 
give you advice you will please follow it.” 

“Very well, Dad.” Peter went out of the room. 
He had not looked at Carina—she was sitting apart 
near the window, contemplating the softly falling 
snow. But he had at least exonerated her from 
blame, and he hoped that this had won her approval. 
He had an idea that she liked people to be frank, 
fearless and courageous. She would hate mean little 
despicable actions. And it would have been mean 
to hide that detail from his father. 

When he had gone out, shutting the door, Carina 
came quietly up to her husband. 

“You mustn’t be angry with him, Jim. After all, 
I let him take it. I didn’t think my books could hurt 
anyone!” 

“I don’t suppose they would strike you in that 
light. But there are points on which we must agree 
to differ. Yours are propaganda novels, aren’t they? 
It’s for that reason I don’t choose that Peter should 
read them.” 

She had the sense of being struck at—wildly, vio¬ 
lently. Her heart sank, and it seemed that strength 
had gone out of her. Yes—while his visible anger 
was all directed against Peter, she knew that in real- 


184 


CARINA 


ity it was wholly concentrated upon herself and her 
religion. Until now, he had said no actual word to 
include her in the blame meted out to his son. But 
she had mistaken his silence. He had only not wished 
to condemn her action in front of Peter; thus far he 
had consideration for her. 

“Sophia has read all your books,” he said. “She 
told me she considered this one almost the most dan¬ 
gerous of them all because it was so insidious.” As 
he spoke, he tapped the book with his long brown 
fingers. “I’m not much hand at reading novels, as 
you know—they seem to have no connection at all 
with real life. But I’ve read this one, and I was 
particularly anxious to keep it from Peter.” He 
fixed his eyes steadily on her face. “Carina, when 
I brought you here as my wife I gave you no authori¬ 
ty to pervert my son. Boys of that age are highly 
impressionable—very susceptible to new influences 
and unfamiliar points of view. I hoped not to have 
to say this to you, but now I must do so. I wish you 
to leave Peter alone. Do you understand me?” 

“I perfectly understand you, Jim.” She met his 
glance quite squarely. “But I think you should have 
been more frank with me.” Her indignation over¬ 
flowed a little, and an angry light shone in her eyes. 
“I’m sorry you discussed my books with Sophia!” 

“I wished to have a perfectly impartial judg¬ 
ment.” 

“You can’t call Sophia impartial. She dislikes the 
Catholic religion very much indeed.” 

“And for that reason she would be more on the 
alert to detect anything that could possibly corrupt 
Peter!” 

“Corrupt?” 

“Well, you know what I mean. Pervert his young 
mind. I must tell you, Carina, that I’m prepared 
.to put down any tendency of the kind in Peter with 


CARINA 




all the severity I’m capable of.” 

“I quite understand.” 

“For instance, if I heard that he’d been sneaking 
off to church with you, I should give him the sound¬ 
est thrashing he’s ever had in his life.” 

Carina gave an involuntary shiver. 

“Do you—do you hate it so much?” she asked 
piteously. 

Something in her voice softened him. 

“Not for you—that’s different. You—you can 
make it even very attractive. But Peter has the 
duties and obligations of his state of life. The liv¬ 
ing here is in our gift. He must be loyal to the tradi¬ 
tions of our house.” 

He tried to draw her to him, but she stiffened a 
little. 

“No. Don’t kiss me now, Jim. You’ve hurt 
me. . . .” 

“You have no right to say that You forced me 
to speak plainly. I was determined not to say any¬ 
thing about it unless you made it absolutely neces¬ 
sary. In my position here, I have to be very care¬ 
ful.” 

“Yes, I see that. And I suppose everyone’s been 
telling you that you oughtn’t to have married a Cath¬ 
olic wife.” 

“No—I don’t let people say those things to me. 
At least never since our marriage. I know I can 
trust you to be quiet and tactful. I’ve been glad to 
see that Peter’s so fond of you. But you must be 
careful not to influence him. ... I shouldn’t 
like to have to send him away from home. . . .” 

“Away from home?” she echoed incredulously.- 

“Yes. If I’ve put danger in his path it’s for me 
to see that he isn’t injured by it* He is Mr. Fear- 
don’s heir as well as mine, and his grandfather is 
very narrow-minded, very intolerant. Peter mustn’t 


186 


CARINA 


be allowed to take any step now in his ignorance, 
that he would regret very bitterly in after life when 
he came to realize its consequences.” 

“Ah, but that’s just it,” she said softly; “he 
wouldn’t regret it. He’d have something better than 
wealth. The pearl of great price—” 

Her eyes were bright with emotion. He felt her 
Faith then, like a thing of flame, burning her, almost 
consuming her. It was something inseparable from 
her, something he did not wish to destroy, even if 
it had been possible to destroy it. He stood near 
her and clasped her hands in his. 

“Oh, my dear,” he said, “you mustn’t forget that 
it was because I had Peter, I was able more easily 
to make those promises about your children being 
brought up in your own Faith. If it hadn’t been for 
him, I should have hesitated . . . there was 

very strong pressure being brought to bear on me 
as it was. So all I ask you now, is to help me to 
keep Peter away from the influence of your religion.” 

“I don’t know if I’m wrong or right,” she said, 
touched by his appeal, “but, Jim—as long as he’s so 
young—so susceptible, as you say—I can at least 
promise you not to talk about it to him, unless he 
asks me questions I’m simply obliged to answer.” 

Jim was immensely relieved. He drew her to him, 
and this time she made no effort to avoid his embrace. 
Indeed, she clung to him a little as if she felt that 
some actual danger had been averted—a danger in¬ 
volving both them and their new happiness. 

‘‘You must never be angry with me, Jim,” she 
whispered. “It makes me so miserable. . . .” 

She went out of the room. Jim watched her re¬ 
treating figure with humid eyes. “So she does care,” 
he said to himself. “I’ve made her care.” 

The thought illuminated the grey January day with 
a wonderful radiance. It was as if he had looked 


CARINA 187 

into Carina’s heart for the first time, and seen his 
own image enthroned therein. 

He looked up, and across the room from a dark 
corner the portrait of his first wife seemed to be 
gazing at him from among the surrounding shadows. 
The eyes followed him with a kind of piteous en¬ 
treaty. He had had it placed there on purpose after 
her death so that it would be less visible to him. It 
was indeed as a rule half concealed by a curtain. 
To-day, however, it seemed to be regarding him with 
a new persistency of gaze, closely, intently, yet with 
an unalterable sadness. 

By a strange impulse he found himself addressing 
the portrait, a thing he had never in his life felt any 
desire to do before. 

“It’s all right, Iris,” he said, “she loves your boy. 
But I won’t let her hurt him. She’s all sweet¬ 
ness. . . .” 

He stopped abruptly, a little ashamed of the fan¬ 
tastic impulse that had urged him to speak. , , . 


CHAPTER XIX 


*^\X 7 E’RE all dying to see your wife, Jim. I 
hear she’s the liveliest creature!” 

Lady Chiltern’s voice was thin and enthusiastic. 
She had known Mallory for many years, and after 
his first wife’s death she had certainly hoped that he 
would marry her daughter Blanche, a plain intelli¬ 
gent woman not much younger than himself, who 
would, she felt, have suited him admirably. For this 
reason she had often invited Peter to stay with them 
for a few days during his holidays, in their huge 
substantial Georgian mansion on the Sussex downs 
about twelve miles from Linfold. During his visits 
Blanche looked after the boy, indulged him, petted 
him, gave him more sweets than could possibly be 
good for him, and taught him to call her Blanche. 
In fact, she wooed the father through the son, a ma¬ 
noeuvre not infrequently successful. Peter accepted 
the devotion as a tribute to his own charms, with the 
easy egotism of youth. To do Mallory himself jus¬ 
tice, he had never given Blanche a thought, and he 
wpuld have considered her treatment of his son un¬ 
wise and injudicious to the last degree, had it ever 
come to his ears. 

Jim smiled. 

“Well, I hope you’re going to see her in a few 
minutes.” 

Calls had been exchanged fruitlessly, and then Lady 
Chiltem had announced her intention of coming over 
one afternoon to tea. She could count on her wel¬ 
come. 


188 


CARINA 


189 


Mallory certainly looked younger, she considered, 
since this odd, sudden, second marriage of his. His 
air of prosperity and success had even given a slight 
touch of complacency to his manner. But he looked 
also if possible more resolute and obstinate than of 
yore. She had never considered these traits in him 
unattractive, possibly because she belonged to the 
older generation that quite simply accepted the man 
as master of the house, capable of imposing his will 
upon wife and children. If he could not do this, he 
must indeed be a poor creature. 

“Carina’s been out with Peter, having a lesson in 
golf. She will be down in a moment,” he said. 

“Blanche tells me that she's read all her books,” 
said Lady Chiltern, trespassing quite unconsciously 
upon dangerous territory. “She says they’re very 
clever. By the way, she has a friend who was con¬ 
verted by reading them. I’d no idea that people could 
be so influenced by novels!” She laughed. “I tell 
Blanche I sincerely trust they won’t have that effect 
upon her. She’s come to that sort of age when it 
seems women must take up something." 

Blanche lived at home on fairly amicable and inti¬ 
mate terms with her mother. Lord Chiltern, many 
years older than his wife, was now a paralyzed in¬ 
valid. He had not spoken for three years. Blanche 
was devoted to him. She hadn't forgotten the many 
kind things he had said to her when he could speak. 
She had always been his favorite, whereas she knew 
that in her mother’s eyes she was the one failure 
among five daughters, of whom the others were all 
handsome, and had made excellent marriages. 

During this unfortunate speech Mallory stirred 
uncomfortably in his chair. He could not quite tell 
Lady Chiltern how greatly he disliked hearing his 
wife’s gift alluded to or praised. And then the re¬ 
port that someone had been converted. . . . All 


CARINA 


190 

his fears for Peter rushed back to his mind like a 
Hock of evil preying birds. 

“I should be sorry to think she’d written anything 
that could possibly upset Blanche,” he returned, as 
lightly as he could. 

“But it shows, doesn’t it, that she must be pretty 
good at it,” said Lady Chiltern enthusiastically. She 
had always wondered why Jim had married a Cath¬ 
olic, and it was really almost as astonishing that he 
should have married a novelist. It was so unlike 
him; he was conventional, liked his own sphere, and 
had never shown any disposition to explore any other, 
Of course, the present Mrs. Mallory was quite well- 
connected. She was a niece of Lady Murray’s, had 
been staying with her when Jim stumbled across her 
path with such immediately fatal results to himself. 
But both her religion and her profession would make 
her somewhat of an alien in Jim’s rather narrow little 
world. 

“Yes, Carina’s had a good deal of success,” he ad¬ 
mitted. 

Something in the angularity of his manner, its 
total lack of enthusiasm, convinced Lady Chiltern 
that he disliked the discussion and was only continu¬ 
ing it from motives of politeness. 

“You must bring her to lunch one day. We should 
he so glad if you would all come. Blanche is so de¬ 
voted to Peter. And she wants to meet your wife 
very much.” 

“I’m sure we shall be delighted.” 

“But you might give her a hint—that I’d rather 
Blanche didn’t. . . .” She stopped. 

. “didn’t?” Mallory had not the slightest inten¬ 
tion of helping her out. 

“Didn’t, well, talk too much to her about the 
Roman Catholic religion. She’s very High Church, 
but so many people have been going over to Rome 


CARINA 


191 

lately, you know—clergymen too—and women in 
Anglican convents. Quite a wave. . . . People 

you’d never think. . . . They say it’s since the 

War. . . 

She paused, for at that moment the door opened 
and Carina Mallory came into the room. Lady 
Chiltern was surprised to find her at once so youth¬ 
ful and so delightfully dressed. She was slim and 
lissom, with the grace of a boy, and her slender 
clothes hung on her to perfection. Lady Chiltern 
noted rapidly the red-gold hair, thick and wavy and 
clipped like that of a Florentine figure in a Renais¬ 
sance picture; the grey-green eyes shining like jewels 
under the black lashes; the small, pale, pointed oval 
of the face. She was beautiful—and she was strange. 
There was nothing conventional even about her beau¬ 
ty. She looked artistic, temperamental, everything in 
fact that one wouldn’t expect Jim’s wife to be. Lady 
Chiltern involuntarily thought of Blanche, and sup¬ 
pressed a sigh even while she took Carina’s hand 
and smiled at her. Men so seldom played for safe¬ 
ty, she reflected almost with bitterness. 

“Well, my dear, I must kiss you because you’re 
Jim’s wife, and he’s such an old dear friend.” She 
kissed Carina’s forehead. 

“Yes. Everyone else seems to have known him 
such ages. Except myself—and it makes me feel a 
stranger.” She laughed. 

“Oh, you mustn’t feel like that,” said Lady Chil¬ 
tern. “It’s because we know Jim so well that we 
want you to come into our little intimate circle as 
soon as possible.” 

Carina glanced at her gratefully. She liked Lady 
Chiltern’s kind manner, and it was nice to feel that 
Jim had old friends who loved and appreciated him. 
People who had known him all through that unhappy 


192 


CARINA 


first marriage of his, and didn’t attribute the whole 
blame of its failure to him. 

Tea was brought in—a welcome interlude, for even 
in the intimate circle to which she was to be immedi¬ 
ately admitted, conversation hung fire. Carina de¬ 
cided that something must have been said to annoy 
Jim before she came into the room. He was obvi¬ 
ously perturbed, wandering restlessly about the room, 
handing cups of tea in abstracted fashion. 

“I’ve just been asking Jim to bring you and Peter 
over to lunch. I want you to meet my daughter 
Blanche—she’s a great admirer of your books, Mrs. 
Mallory.” 

I m so glad she likes them.” Carina’s voice was 
cool and indifferent. She could now divine the cause 
of her husband s annoyance. She wished people 
wouldn’t talk about her books in front of Jim. 

She began to talk about other things in her low 
clear voice, guiding the conversation into less stormy 
channels. 

J^m watched her with something of admiration 
She was absolutely at her ease with his old friend \ 
he felt for the first time that she had the indefinable 
look of the person who has succeeded through her 
own efforts It wasn’t the fact of her marriage that 
had given her significance, even in Lady Chiltern’s 
eyes, ohe had gained significance by virtue of her 
talent before she had ever seen him. 

“Would Tuesday suit you?” Lady Chiltern conti- 
nued. 

Carina looked at Jim, and he said quickly: 

Tuesday will suit us perfectly. Are we really to 
bring Peter? J 

1 , c ° urae \ Blanche will be so disappointed if you 

don t And the week after, we’re giving a boy and 
g.rl dance. I hope Peter will stay with us for it.” 
Lady Chiltern looked at Jim. 


CARINA 


i 93 


His face cleared. “That’s very kind of you. I can 
answer for him that he’ll be delighted.” 

He was quite eager in his acceptance of the invita¬ 
tion. Carina thought: “He wants Peter to go. He’s 
afraid. . . .” She did not pursue this thought 

to its logical conclusion. But hadn’t he shown her the 
true nature of his fears only the other day, even be¬ 
seeching her assistance in his endeavor to combat the 
danger? 

“Peter wants young society. It’s bad for him to 
be always with us,” Mallory added. 

“I’ve just been to see Mrs. Humphreys,” continued 
Lady Chiltern. “The baby’s a dear little thing. She 
seems quite glad it’s a girl—girls are less trouble, she 
says, and don’t wear out their clothes so quickly. 
You haven’t met her yet, I suppose?” 

“No—the baby was born just before we arrived,” 
Carina answered. 

“They’re charming people,” said Lady Chiltern. 
“Mr. Humphreys is quite an exceptional man. 
You’re lucky to have him here—such a good 
preacher. But of course I was forgetting—that 
doesn’t affect you.” 

“No,” said Carina. 

She had only once seen Mr. Humphreys, but she 
had felt his ill-defined hostility keenly. For him she 
represented a dangerous element that it was far 
better not to introduce into quiet country parishes. 
Carina was too sensitive not to discern this attitude. 
Jim had once alluded to the “pressure that had been 
brought to bear” upon him. She divined that it had 
probably emanated from the rector. 

“I hear you have lived a great deal abroad,” 
said Lady Chiltern. 

“Yes—I was in Rome for five years with my 
sister. I came back to England after her death 
last May.” 


194 


CARINA 


e 


“And then you met Jim! How delightful—one 
likes to hear of these sudden romances.” 

Carina smiled. “Yes—it was very sudden.” 

They talked on till nearly six o’clock, and then 
Lady Chiltern rose to go. On the whole she felt 
/the visit had been a success. Jim’s wife was a 
charming young creature, but really he looked 
almost old enough to be her father. Well, he knew 
his own business best, but there was a certain amount 
of risk about the whole thing. The girl looked like 
an alien exotic thing, planted there in the conven¬ 
tional English countryside. And she could never 
quite form part of it. Jim must find it awkward, 
too, going to church without her. . . . 

All the way home she was thinking how much 
better it would have been if he’d married Blanche. 
She would have gone to church with him on Sun¬ 
days, mothered Peter, and made a perfect hostess. 
But Jim had evidently fallen in love with this Miss 
Ramsden. Report—always unkind in country vil¬ 
lages—had suggested that Carina had been by no 
means keen about it, but that Lady Murray had 
cleverly managed to bring the affair to a triumphant 
conclusion. Yes, it was evident that he was des¬ 
perately in love with this slip of a girl, with her 
artistic, poetical, sensitive face. 

Her conversation, too, with Mr. Humphreys at 
the rectory that afternoon had been slightly dis¬ 
quieting. He had shaken his head over “this un¬ 
fortunate marriage poor old Mallory has just 
made.” Peter—yes, she was rapidly gaining a hold 
over Peter; she was always about with him. Peter 
in her hands was docility itself, and Jim had never 
found it quite easy to deal with him. 

“But as long as Jim recognizes the danger—” 
Mr. Humphreys had concluded. 

“Oh, well, you must point it out to him,” said 


CARINA 


i 95 

Lady Chiltern, with the curious simplicity she some¬ 
times displayed. 

“Not so easy, now she’s there,” Mr. Humphreys 
had admitted. “I did speak some very plain home 
truths to him before his marriage, when I discovered 
wdiat it would involve.” 

“I’m sure things will settle down quite comfort¬ 
ably in the end; they generally do,” she thought, 
as the car bore her swiftly homeward. Still, she 
reflected that a man who makes a mistake in his 
first marriage, generally chooses even less wisely the 
second time. 

Carina had probably more character than Iris, 
and would “stand up to Jim” better. It dawned 
upon Lady Chiltern on her swift journey through the 
frost-bitten winter lanes, that Jim didn’t care much 
for his wife’s books. He had even looked per¬ 
turbed and annoyed when the subject was intro¬ 
duced. 

“Well, he can always stop her writing them,” 
was her last reflection, as the car stopped before 
the door of Linfold Towers. 


CHAPTER XX 


I T WAS the day following Lady Chiltern’s visit. 

A thaw had set in, and the snow was nearly all 
gone, only a thin line of it remaining on the north 
side of walls and hedges. The day was bright and 
sunny, and very mild for January, with a pale blue 
sky overhead patterned with floating islands of 
cloud. 

“Like a walk this morning, Carina?” said Jim. 
Peter had ridden off to the meet at an early hour, 
exhilarated by the prospect of a long day’s hunting. 
Jim’s hunter was lame, and he considered the 
distance too far for the young horse he had lately 
purchased. But a day at home no longer offered the 
disagreeable and boring prospect it had been wont 
to do before his marriage. Lately he had even 
begun to look forward to the time when he and 
Carina should be alone again. Sophia’s visit loomed 
ahead, but had not as yet materialized; she was ex¬ 
pected on the morrow. 

“Of course I should like it,” Carina answered, 
looking up from her letters. 

“Can you be ready to start at half past ten? I 
want to go up to those new cottages beyond Lin- 
fold—one of my men’s ill there. A man called 
Carter—I’m afraid they’re a bit put to it. He made 
a foolish marriage last year—girl from Lintown, 
quite unused to country life—and now there’s a 
baby.” 

“Oh, let’s take them something.” 

_ “Well, I daresay they’d be glad of something for 
him. I’ m afraid he’s got pneumonia, from what my 
agent says.” 


196 


CARINA 


197 


Jirn was always consistently kind to his tenants, 
both in sickness and health. He disapproved of 
“coddling” as he called it, but he made it a point of 
honor that every tenant on his estate should be 
properly housed and adequately paid. There was 
not a single cottage out of repair on his property, 
and he was always accessible if need demanded, to 
listen to complaints or petitions. 

Carina had not so far made the acquaintance of 
any of her husband’s tenants, though she had always 
supposed this would be demanded of her. But Jim 
hadn’t suggested that she should occupy herself with 
them, for the simple reason that Mr. Humphreys 
had informed him before his marriage that it would 
be better not. However, there could be no harm in 
her coming with him to-day. 

When they arrived at the cottage, which was one 
of a row, and had to be approached by a steep foot¬ 
path from a muddy lane, Jim greeted the wife—a 
plaintive-looking girl of nineteen with a baby in her 
arms—and then went upstairs to see Carter. 

Carina, left alone with the woman, asked to be 
allowed to look at the baby. As babies went, it did 
not appear to be a very thriving specimen. 

“She’s delicate, madam. The cold don’t suit her,” 
said the girl. 

“How old is she?” 

“Three months, madam. Carter and I have been 
married just over the year.” 

“What is her name?” inquired Carina. 

“We call her Mary, madam.” 

Suddenly the girl’s eyes filled with tears. She was 
pretty in her delicate town-bred fashion, very unlike 
the fair-haired strapping girls of the Sussex country¬ 
side. Carina began to wonder if she were unhappy 
in her novel, unaccustomed surroundings. 


198 


CARINA 


“Is anything the matter? Can I help you?” she 
asked. 

She felt uneasy, as if she had suddenly found her¬ 
self in the presence of some obscure and pitiful soul- 
tragedy. 

“Is your husband worse?” she asked. 

'Mrs. Carter sank down in a chair and clasped the 
baby tightly to her thin breast. 

“No, madam, it isn’t that,” she said at last, 
between her sobs. “But I’ve been wanting you to 
come.. Praying for.it . . . and when I saw you 

come in just now with Mr. Mallory—why it seemed 
to give me quite a turn!” 

Carina was genuinely puzzled. 

“But I don’t understand . . .” she began. 

You re the first Catholic I’ve seen since I came 
here,” said Mrs. Carter; “I’ve not spoken to one 
since I was married. And with the baby—and her 
not being baptized . . She choked back her 

sobs, and her wild dark eyes gazed at Carina with 
something of supplication in them. 

Carina sat down near her and slipped an arm 
about her. Tell me what I can do.” Her voice 
was very gentle. 

“Someone told me you was a Catholic, madam. 
Carter he wouldn’t believe it at first—Mr. Mallory 
don t care to have them on his property—Carter 
told me to lie low about being one, for fear of giv¬ 
ing offence. But I was baptized a Catholic, madam, 
and went to my duties regular till I was married. 

I was a Child of Mary . . . But my husband 

don t hold with the religion at all—and I want to 
have my baby baptized proper. I thought you’d 
help me.. Carter thinks a lot of Mr. M^allory—so 

maybe if there was any trouble you’d speak to 
him.” 

Why, of course 111 speak to him,” said Carina. 


CARINA 


199 


“The baby ought to have been baptized long ago.” 

“Yes, madam, but what was I to do? What with 
Carter being against it—and spoke to the rector, 
too, he did—and my being so far from Lin- 
town. . . 

“Didn’t your husband make the promises?” 

The girl shook her head, and began to cry afresh. 
“You see, it was this way, madam; my father didn’t 
want me to marry a Protestant, and he wouldn’t 
have anything to say to Carter. So we was mar¬ 
ried in the church here.” 

“That was very wrong,” said Carina. 

“Y^s, madam—I know it was. But Carter per¬ 
suaded me—and I was very fond of him. But when 
the baby came and I was very ill, I got frightened. 
I asked him to send for Father Pemberton—but he 
wouldn’t. He was afraid of its getting round to 
Mr. Mallory. We hadn’t heard then that you was 
a Catholic, madam. I don’t believe Carter would 
be afraid of having the baby baptized by Father 
Pemberton now.” 

“Well, w r e must see about it, and have it done as 
soon as possible, Mrs. Carter,” said Carina. 

The woman looked at her with heavy grateful 
eyes. 

“You and Mr. Mallory were married in a Cath¬ 
olic church, madam?” 

“Yes. In London.” 

“And he made all the promises?” 

“Yes,” said Carina. 

Mrs. Carter looked immensely relieved. “Oh, 
then he’ll understand about the baby,” she said con¬ 
fidently. 

For the first time an ugly little doubt crept into 
Carina’s heart. Would he understand? Would he 
help her? Perhaps it would annoy him to know 
that Mrs. Carter had consulted her. . . . 


200 


CARINA 


She said quietly: “And I must see about taking 
you in to Lintown on Sunday to hear Mass. Do 
you think there are any other Catholics living round 
here who don’t practice their religion?” 

The woman shook her head. “I’ve never heard 
tell of any,” she said. “It’s the feeling I was the 
only one, that made me so lonesome like. And as I 
said just now, I’d been praying that you might come, 
madam. I felt if I could speak to you—” 

There were sounds of movement overhead, and in 
another moment Jim Mallory came into the spot¬ 
less little parlor. 

“Well, Mrs. Carter, your husband’s better this 
morning. I’ll tell the doctor to look in again later, 
and leave word at the Park what he’s to have in the 
way of food.” 

“Thank you, sir,” said the woman. 

“How’s the baby getting on?” 

“Pretty fair, sir. But she isn’t putting on weight 
as she ought.” 

“And you’re losing weight, too, by the look of 
you, Mrs. Carter,” said Mallory. “Nothing else 
worrying you, I hope?” His voice if a little rough 
was kind. The woman was so obviously out of her 
sphere in a laborer’s cottage. She ought to be serv¬ 
ing in a shop, displaying ribbons across the counter. 
Hers was the genuine town-type, refined from contact 
with town ways, but she was not a suitable wife for 
a big rough son of the soil like Carter. Just as he 
was not good enough for her, she was not good 
enough for him. Village gossip affirmed that they 
were not happy—that Carter had “lifted his hand” 
to her more than once. He was a fine upstanding 
giant, fair, powerful, elemental. It was no doubt 
his good-looks, his strength, that had appealed to 
little Nancy Burton. 

“Thank you, sir. There was something worry- 


CARINA 


201 


ing me, but I feel better about it, now I’ve had a 
talk with Mrs. Mallory.” 

Jim glanced half puzzled at Carina. Then he 
said: “I’m very glad to hear that. Anything my 
wife can do . . .” 

“Thank you, sir. Mrs. Mallory said she’d try 
and help me.” 

“Well, you must take great care of that man of 
yours. These big strong chaps always take illness 
badly. However, I’m sure he’s on the mend. Keep 
your spirits up, Mrs. Carter.” 

He shook hands with her. Carina followed his 
example, and then stooping over the baby, kissed it. 
She joined Jim on the doorstep. 

“I’m glad I’ve seen the man for myself,” said 
Mallory. “He’ll want a bit of care after this— 
perhaps a week or so at the sea. That poor little 
woman isn’t much use, I’m afraid. Can’t think what 
induced him to marry her.” 

They climbed down the steep footpath into the 
muddy lane below. There was a fragrance of moist 
earth, of rotting leaves, and the wind that touched 
their faces was slightly brackish in quality. As they 
walked homeward through Linfold village they en¬ 
countered Mr. Humphreys with his eldest little girl, 
a pretty child of about ten. 

“I’ve just been up to see Carter,” said Mallory; 
“he’s had a sharpish attack.” 

“Yes, indeed he has,” said the rector genially. 
“But that wife of his”—He broke off, and seemed 
slightly embarrassed. “Can’t get her to bring the 
baby down to be baptized. She won’t give me any 
reason . . . but she’s as obstinate as a little 

mule. Still, I fancy she has a roughish time.” 

“Oh, it was a foolish marriage,” said Jim, “but 
it’s done now, and they must both try and make the 
best of it. I shall get him away to the sea, as soon 


202 


CARINA 


as he’s fit to be moved, and it won’t hurt her either 
to get away for a bit. Doesn’t drink, does he?” 

“No—from what I hear, he’s a sober steady fel¬ 
low,” said the rector. “A bit bad-tempered per¬ 
haps—something of a bully. And she’s not used to 
rough ways.” 

“The baby doesn’t seem to be thriving,” said Jim. 
“Well, we must push on, Carina. My boy’s out 
hunting to-day,” he added, as he took Mr. Humph¬ 
reys’ outstretched hand. “Good day for scent.” 

“And, Mrs. Mallory—I hope you’re quite settling 
down among us?” said the rector, genially. 

“Yes, thank you,” said Carina, simply. 

She was aware of the fixed stare of the little girl, 
Joyce; it almost embarrassed her. She was too little 
vain to accept it as a token of fervent admiration. 

“I’m hoping to come and see your wife soon,” she 
added. 

“Yes, do. Any day after four you’ll find her down¬ 
stairs.” 

“We’ve got a new baby,” said Joyce, “such a 
funny ugly one with no hair at all. And doesn’t it 
yell!” 

“Joyce, dear, you mustn’t talk like that about your 
baby sister!” There was a hint of irritation in the 
rector’s tone. 

“Why mustn’t I say it, Daddy? My doll’s ever 
so much prettier. I don’t think it’s a very nice baby,” 
she added, despondently. 

“Wait till she grows a little and then she’ll be as 
nice as possible, laughed Carina, stooping down and 
kissing Joyce under her big velvet bonnet. 

She had a captivating way with children, Jim 
thought watching her. She had the ready under¬ 
standing and sympathy, that are so necessary to 
touch the child’s imagination. 

“What’s your name, dear,” she asked. 


CARINA 


203 


“Joyce Agnes Humphreys.” 

“Well, Joyce, I hope you’ll come to tea with me 
one of these days.” 

Before the child could answer, Mr. Humphreys 
interposed. 

“That’s very kind of you, Mrs. Mallory—very 
kind indeed. But we can’t spare our little girl—she’s 
the eldest of the three girls, you know, and she has 
her little duties. We look to Joyce to keep the 
children quiet when Mamma’s resting, don’t we, 
Joyce ?” 

Joyce’s face fell. 

“Oh, I’d much rather go to tea with Mrs. Mall¬ 
ory, Daddy,” she said. “I hate looking after the 
others. It’s horrid being the eldest,” she added, 
turning to Carina; “you have to set an example and 
see that the others aren’t naughty. And then if 
they are naughty you get punished for it. Were you 
ever the eldest?” 

“Yes. But I only had one sister,” said Carina. 

“No brothers?” inquired Joyce. 

“No—I never had any brothers.” 

“Good luck for you. It’s simply awful trying to 
keep boys quiet, and they’re so cheeky,” said Joyce. 

“That’s enough, Joyce. You’re talking too 
much, said her father sternly. “Mrs. Mallory 
doesn’t want to hear your opinion. Good-bye, Mrs. 
Mallory.” He shook hands with them both. “Joyce 
and I must be toddling home or Mamma will be 
wondering what’s become of us.” 

He took his little girl by the hand and led her 
away. 

Jim and Carina walked on in silence. Presently, 
as if he had just recollected the matter, Mallory 
turned to her and said: 

“You were just going to tell me, weren’t you, what 
Mrs. Carter wanted you to do for her? I hope it 


204 


CARINA 


was nothing very impracticable? I’m afraid she’s 
rather a nervous hysterical woman.” 

“I think she’s nervous,” Carina agreed, “and then 
she’s got something on her conscience, and she’s 
evidently fretting about it.” 

“On her conscience!” repeated Jim. 

“Yes. Mr. Humphreys almost hinted something 
about it just now. You see—she’s a Catholic!” 

“A Catholic? Oh, you must be mistaken, darling. 
I’ve got no Catholics among my people here. I’ve 
always tried to avoid it, you know. Partly on account 
of Humphreys. He’s awfully broad-minded about 
Dissenters, but—” He stopped short. He couldn’t 
quite tell her that Humphreys’ prejudices against the 
Roman Catholic Church were very strong indeed. It 
was up to Carina with her good sense, her great tact, 
to show him that her coming among them would 
cause no stir of any sort. 

“Well, she is one. They didn’t like to say any¬ 
thing about it, and I’m sorry to say they were married 
in Linfold church. But now it’s making her un¬ 
happy—she wants Father Pemberton to baptize her 
baby—and Carter won’t allow it. So she asked me 
to appeal to you, Jim!” 

Carina slipped her hand in Jim’s arm with a 
gesture of confidence that touched him. 

“I’m to ask you to plead for her with Carter,” she 
added. 

“But—she must know that naturally I should urge 
Carter to have the baby christened here by Humph¬ 
reys. He’s made no promises, as they were married 
here, so he’s got the whip hand . . .” 

All of a sudden he felt to the full the awkward¬ 
ness of the situation. Mrs. Carter had appealed to 
Carina because she was a Catholic, married to a 
Protestant who had made the requisite promises on 
behalf of his own unborn children. The fact seemed 


CARINA 


205 

to hit him in the face; it had all the violence of a 
well-directed blow. 

“You must see for yourself that it’s absolutely im¬ 
possible for me to interfere, Carina,” he said. 
“Humphreys would make a personal matter of it. 
I’ve never had quarrels with my neighbors—I’ve 
lived here on the best of terms with everyone. I can’t 
begin to have rows with Humphreys now. He’s 
rather on the alert as it is.” 

Carina was silent. Then she said: 

“Well, Jim, suppose you leave it to me? I think 
I can talk to Carter. And anyhow I’ll take poor 
Mrs. Carter to Lintown on Sundays so that she may 
hear Mass. There’s heaps of room in the car, and 
she could get a neighbor to look after the baby.” 

“Carina, darling, I do beg you’ll do nothing of 
the kind. It would get round to Humphreys at 
once—” 

“But I’m sure he must know she’s a Catholic and 
ought to practise her own religion.” 

“I expect he’d say it was her duty to obey her 
husband. Not but what I think Carter’s quite cap¬ 
able of enforcing obedience. He’s a pretty tough 
customer when he’s well.” 

“Do you mean that he beats her?” said Carina, 
with a slight shiver. 

“Well, I shouldn’t go so far as to say that, per¬ 
haps. But I think, from all accounts, she’s felt the 
weight of his fist once or twice. It’s said that these 
women don’t like their husbands any the less if they 
give them a touch of the stick from time to time.” 
He grinned. “Perhaps they even expect it,” he 
added complacently. 

“But Jim—never mind about that. You reallv 
must help me. She wouldn’t have asked me—if I 
hadn’t been your wife—and a Catholic. . . .” 

“But, my dear, I do hope you didn’t give her to 


20 6 


CARINA 


understand there was any prospect of my being able 
to help her in the matter? I wouldn’t interfere for 
the world.” 

“Of course I said I’d speak to you about it, Jim.” 

“Well, it’s very awkward—you mustn’t say any¬ 
thing another time without consulting me. But you 
needn’t go and see her again. I’ll send Sophia up 
to explain—that’ll save you the awkwardness of 
going yourself.” 

“But Jim—I can’t—I simply can’t let it end there. 
The woman is a lapsed Catholic, and it’s my duty 
to.help her and try to induce the man to have the 
child baptized. You needn’t have anything to do 
with it, though she seemed to think it would be 
enough for you to speak to Carter. He’s always 
been afraid of offending you—it was more that than 
anything. I must help her.” Carina’s face was 
flushed and excited. 

Carina, I must really forbid you to take anv steps 
in the matter.” 

Jim’s voice had a touch of unwonted sternness. 

She was silent. 

You must see that it would annoy Humphreys 
excessively to think you were interfering about the 
baptism of one of his parishioners.” 

But even as the words were uttered, he felt a faint 
sense of dismay. There would come a time per¬ 
haps . . . He simply dared not pursue the 

thought—the accruing complications would surely 
temper his joy at such a possibility to an almost cruel 
. extent. He looked suddenly at the slight, light girlish 
figure at his side. The wind had disarranged her 
brilliant hair a little under the close fur cap she was 
wearing, and her cheeks were flushed with exercise. 
She looked beautiful to-day, and had she come to him 
with any other request on her lips he must surely 
have given way. But the meeting with Mr. Humph- 


CARINA 


207 


reys had not been altogether smooth, and the rector’s 
manner seemed in the light of later events to have 
sounded a note of warning, with respect to the 
baptism of Carter’s child. Perhaps he had even 
imagined that the visit had been paid with an ulterior 
motive quite unconnected with the man’s health. 

Mallory realized that a conflict between two op¬ 
posing loyalties had arisen to confront him. He had 
a kind of uncomfortable conviction that, given her 
faith, his wife had right on her side. But, then, 
Carter had made no promises; he wasn’t bound . . . 
as he himself for instance would be bound under 
similar circumstances. There was a sharp little sting 
in the thought. Carter had won his wife on pretty 
easy terms. . . . 

“Don’t let us talk any more about it, Car darling,” 
he said, and they walked back almost to the house 
in dead silence. As they neared the gate he said: 

“Darling—if it were anything I could give you, 
you know that you should have it at once!” 

But Carina looked straight in front of her and 
said nothing. 



CHAPTER XXI 


C ARINA decided in her own mind that whatever 
steps she might take in the matter must be taken 
•before Sophia arrived. She dreaded that event, 
realizing that her sister-in-law was very intimate at 
the rectory and would in all things support Mr. 
Humphreys’ view of the case. It would make things 
harder for her to have Sophia there, keeping Jim 
up to a proper sense of his duty both as landlord 
and as patron of the living. 

Jim wasn’t wholly against her, she could see that, 
and she felt grateful to him for it. But he was 
deeply concerned at the thought of annoying his old 
friend in any way. She mustn’t look to him, there¬ 
fore, for any practical assistance. She must manage 
alone. 

After lunch she went up to her room and wrote 
a little note to Father Pemberton, telling him all the 
facts of the case, and putting the matter into his 
hands. Perhaps he could go over to Linfold and see 
Carter and talk to him. She would defray any ex¬ 
penses, for he would have to hire a motor; there was 
no other means of getting there. She hoped that 
he would succeed in obtaining the man’s permission 
to have the baby baptized. 

She longed to go up to the cottage and hear further 
news, but she received no answer to her letter until 
the evening of Sophia’s arrival. That lady was in¬ 
deed sitting with her in the drawing-room when the 
post arrived, and with it Father Pemberton’s reply. 
She must wait until she was alone to read it. And 

208 


CARINA 


209 


Sophia showed no disposition to hurry over her tea. 
She had had a cold journey from London, and the 
warmth of the room was very comforting. Also, 
Carina had welcomed her in the most charming 
manner. 

Jim and Peter had been out golfing all the after¬ 
noon, playing in a competition on the Lintown links, 
a good many miles away. Still, they ought to have 
been back by now. She glanced at the clock. It was 
unusual for them to be as late as this. . . . 

Peter came in soon afterward alone. He greeted 
his aunt, and Carina rang for some hot tea. 

“Where’s your father, Peter?” she asked. “Didn’t 
he come back with you?” 

“Yes, but old Humphreys stopped us as we came 
through the village and said he had something im¬ 
portant to tell him. Dad wanted to put it oft till 
to-morrow, said he was tired, and you’d be waiting 
for him. But it was no go. He positively insisted.” 

Carina’s heart sank. She was afraid that the news 
of Father Pemberton’s visit to the cottage must have 
reached the rector’s ears. He was a very active 
visitor in his own parish, and kept himself well- 
informed as to all its happenings, great and small. 

“If you ask me, he seemed to be in a jolly good 
rage about something or other, Carina. And you 
could see, Dad didn’t want to go a little bit!” 

These words were not at all calculated to allay 
Carina’s misgivings. She was aroused from the con¬ 
templation of them by hearing Miss Mallory say: 

“That’s not a respectful way to address your step¬ 
mother, Peter. I’m sure your father wouldn’t ap¬ 
prove of it.” 

Peter flushed. “He knows I call her Carina,” 
he said. “What would you have me call her? Not 
Mrs. Mallory, I suppose?” 

“Don’t be impertinent, Peter.” 


210 


CARINA 


“Sorry, Aunt Sophy. I didn’t mean to be.” 

If only Sophia would go up to her room before 
Jim’s return. . . . With Carina the wish had 

become almost a prayer. She longed to know the 
contents of Father Pemberton’s letter. Something 
must have happened, or why should the rector de¬ 
tain Jim in this fashion? 

The wish or prayer might have affected Sophia 
Mallory subconsciously, for she rose saying: 

“I think I’ll go up to my room and take my things 
off before Jim comes in.” 

Carina rose as if to accompany her. 

“Oh, I know the way!” 

“Yes, but I’d like to come. Peter, you must look 
after yourself.” 

“Right-0!” 

Carina accompanied her sister-in-law into the room 
that was always set apart for her when she came to 
Linfold. But she did not remain with her very long. 
She went down a long passage into her own sitting- 
room and switched on the electric light. 

There was a bright fire, and she sat down near it, 
for she felt deadly cold, and almost sick with ap¬ 
prehension. Then she opened the priest’s letter. It 
was short and to the point. He had motored out 
to the cottage immediately on receipt of her letter, 
and had discussed the matter with the sick man, 
whose only objection to having the child baptized a 
Catholic had lain in his fear of offending Mr. Mall¬ 
ory. . But now that he understood Mr. Mallory had 
married a Catholic himself, and had made the prom¬ 
ises on behalf of his own children should there be 
any, Carter had permitted his fears to be allayed 
and given the required permission. He couldn’t bear, 
he said, to see his wife fretting about it, but on the 
other hand he didn’t want to risk losing his place. 
Father Pemberton added that he had baptized the 


CARINA 


211 


child, and had heard the woman’s confession. He 
had had a very long talk with them both, and had 
found the man quite amenable. There was even 
some hope that he would become a Catholic. 

Carina had scarcely finished reading the letter, 
when the door opened and Jim came into the room. 
She saw at a glance that he was both perturbed and 
angry. His eyes were blazing, and the black brows 
met in a straight ominous line across his face. 

Carina rose. “Have you had your tea, Jim? It 
was all ready—” 

“No,” he said, “I’ve come straight up here. Peter 
said you’d gone upstairs. I’ve seen Humphreys— 
he’s in a simply towering rage over this Carter busi¬ 
ness. Says you sent the priest up there. But it 
wasn’t your doing, surely, Carina? After what I 
said?” 

Their eyes met. He seemed to be demanding the 
truth from her, but Carina had never had the slight¬ 
est intention of withholding it from him. 

“Please don’t frighten me, Jim. Of course I wrote 
and told Father Pemberton. There was nothing else 
for me to do.” 

Her voice was steady. But Jim’s anger always 
inspired her with a measure of physical fear. Never 
having experienced that sensation before in her life, 
it seemed to her a degrading one. 

“You wrote to Father Pemberton?” he repeated, 
as if he could hardly bring himself to believe her. 
“Didn’t I tell you not to interfere? I said I would 
send Sophy up there to explain.” 

“I know you did, Jim. But I felt I couldn’t let 
you do that. I had to help Mrs. Carter. I didn’t 
know until just now, what had been done. But I’ve 
just had this letter from Father Pemberton—you can 
read it if you like.” 

Jim took the letter and went nearer to the lamp 


212 


CARINA 


to read it. The light was full on his face, and she 
could see the veins like knotted cords on his fore¬ 
head. When he had finished reading it he threw the 
letter down on the table with a gesture of disgust. 

“Well, they’ve made a mistake, that’s all I can 
say,” he remarked, more temperately than Carina 
could have hoped. “I’m certainly not going to let 
them stay on. I owe that to Humphreys. He can’t 
have any Roman interference here, and I quite agree 
with him. Carter’ll have to clear out, the moment 
he’s well enough.” 

Carina was horrified. “Oh, you can’t mean that, 
Jim!” she cried. 

“But I do mean it,” said Mallory, “there’s row 
enough about it as it is. Carter ought never to have 
married the girl. And it wasn’t fair her dragging 
you into it like this. I’ve got a man who’s very 
anxious to have the cottage—a very respectable 
young chap who wants to get married as soon as he 
can find a place to live in.” 

“But . . . they’ll starve, Jim. Carter won’t 

be able to work again for ages. And then where 
are they to go?” 

“My dear Carina, you must leave me to settle my 
own affairs. I never allow anyone to interfere. You 
went against me—you’ve only got yourself to blame. 
But I hope it’ll teach you a lesson.” He looked 
down at her. He found it more and more difficult 
to be angry with Carina. She wove spells about him, 
and he knew that if it hadn’t been for that hectic 
talk with the rector he would have passed the whole 
matter over in silence. But Humphreys was very 
angry—justifiably angry—had even threatened to 
throw up the living. It was all very unpleasant, es¬ 
pecially for a man who only desired peace in his 
private life. 

Carina’s face had assumed a certain rocky expres- 


CARINA 


213 

sion that he was accustomed now to associate with 
an unspoken opposition to his own views. 

The only thing that’s left for me to do in order 
to pacify Humphreys, is to get rid of the Carters. 
Especially, as Father Pemberton thinks there’s a 
chance of converting the man. He’s too ill and weak 
now to resist. And as for their thinking they’d get 
any support from me because I’d married a Roman 
Catholic, they’ll soon learn that for that very reason 
I shall put my foot down more than ever on any¬ 
thing of the sort. I really thought you had too much 
tact to. try to influence the poor people. It seems I 
was mistaken. \ ou haven’t been here more than a 
few weeks, and you’ve already contrived to put me 
into a jolly unpleasant position.” 

“Pm sorry, Jim. But I only did what I knew to 
be right, and I can’t be sorry for that. And of 
course it’s only reasonable for people round here to 
think you can’t be so very prejudiced since you mar¬ 
ried a Catholic.” 

. “Then I must show them they’re mistaken,” said 
Jim. “Humphreys has got his back up, I can 
tell you. Said he realized that things were 
changed. . . .” 

“Jim, why do you listen to him? Why don’t you 
judge for yourself?” 

“I am judging for myself. And I see that things 
can’t go on like this, or I shall have the whole 
neighborhood about my ears. And it’s very un¬ 
fortunate, too, that Sophy should have come just 
now. She’s very thick with Mrs. Humphreys— 
spends half her time there.” 

Carina was silent. Left to herself, she felt that 
she could have managed Jim without difficulty, but 
outside interference was too strong for him. The 
Humphreys-Sophia combination threatened to prove 
a strong one. She sighed. 


214 


CARINA 


“Carina—I didn’t want to be hard on you—” he 
said, wistfully. 

She looked up. “You make me feel it was a mis¬ 
take—my ever coming here.” 

He came up to her and took her hand. “No—you 
mustn’t think that, Carina darling. You’ve given 
me the only true happiness I’ve ever had. You’ve 
made me think better even of your religion. But 
you’re not used to English country life, and of course 
you’re bound to make mistakes at first.” 

“Jim, promise me you won’t be too hard on the 
Carters. She looks such a frail little woman. And 
there’s the baby. ... At least, let me help 
them if they do go away. I’ve plenty of money of 
my own—I should like to spend some of it on them. 
You—you give me everything I can possibly want— 
I’ve hardly used any of my own money since we 
were married.” 

“I’ll think about it,” said Jim. “And in any case 
I won’t be hard on them. I’ll send the man off to 
the sea, and try to find a job for him later on when 
he’s better. Will that do, Car darling?” 

“Thank you, Jim.” 

They were at peace again. She lifted her face 
to his and he kissed her. She felt that she could 
never forget his words spoken that evening: “ You’ve 
given me the only true happiness Vve ever had” 

So he hadn’t regretted it. And just then she had 
needed the assurance. . . . 


CHAPTER XXII 


J IM was anxious to keep the Carter affair from 
Peter’s knowledge, and he feared that during the 
next few days there would be frequent and perhaps 
heated interviews with the rector, which might render 
this secrecy difficult. It was therefore rather a relief 
to him when at dinner that night a prettily worded 
note from Blanche Chiltern arrived, inviting Peter 
to stay at the Towers for the dance and to remain 
with them after it for a few days. Some of her 
nephews and nieces were also coming to stay there, 
and there were, besides, several dances in prospect 
in the neighborhood, to which Peter of course could 

go- 

Peter loved dancing, like all the youth of his 
particular generation; he was very popular among 
the young people of the neighborhood, and at one 
time there is no doubt the prospect would have filled 
him with delight. Now, however, when Jim in¬ 
formed him of the contents of the note which Car¬ 
ina had just handed across the table, his face fell. 

“Oh, can’t I just have the car and go over for the 
dance? I don’t want to stay there a little bit. It’s 
much jollier here!” 

He looked at Carina as if hoping to elicit some 
support from her. But her face was very still and 
tranquil, and she remained silent. 

“Nonsense, Peter! It’s very kind of Lady Chil¬ 
tern to ask you. Of course you must go, and stay 
there as long as they want you to.” 

Peter relapsed into silence. If it hadn’t been for 

215 


2 1 6 


CARINA 


Aunt Sophy’s presence he would have imagined that 
they wished to be alone for a bit, his father and 
Carina. But with Aunt Sophy at Linfold it couldn’t 
be for that reason. He didn’t in the least want to 
go. Blanche was fussy and sentimental . . . . 

She wasn’t just young and ripping, like Carina. His 
face wore a look of intense, dismayed annoyance. 

Miss Mallory struck in: “Why, Peter, I can re¬ 
member the time when you were only too delighted 
to stay there. What’s changed you ?” 

She fixed her dark hard eyes upon him. 

He paused a little. “I like being here best, Aunt 
Sophy,” he finally returned. 

“Yes, I quite understand that. But why?” in¬ 
quired his aunt, blandly. 

“I can’t explain. It’s jollier here—” he said, 
wriggling a little uncomfortably in his chair. He 
knew that Sophia had guessed the reason for his 
not wishing to leave home. 

“You should always have a reason, Peter. Other¬ 
wise likes and dislikes are such childish, unintelligible 
things!” 

Sophia watched her victim. Yes, it was as she 
thought. Carina had already made the boy her 
devoted slave. Her influence was far too strong. 
Given all the circumstances, it was dangerously 
strong. And one knew where it would lead to. 

Her three hearers, all perceiving her meaning, 
were made uncomfortable by this persistence. What 
she was really saying was so obviously: “You don’t 
want to go away because Carina’s here—you’ve taken 
a foolish fancy to her, and she will use it to her own 
ends.” 

Mallory was perhaps the most miserably uncom¬ 
fortable of the three. Always a little afraid of his 
sister’s tongue, and of her acute observant eyes, they 
made him feel to-night a little guilty. To-morrow 


CARINA 


217 


she would no doubt call at the rectory at an early 
hour, and learn the full details of the Carter case. 

He hoped that Carina didn’t guess anything of 
his secret motive for wishing Peter to stay at the 
Towers as long as possible. Sophia had certainly 
divined it. She was on the alert to discover how 
far Carina’s influence had already spread at Linfold. 
Jim foresaw how completely she would support Mr. 
Humphreys against Carina about the Carter affair. 

It soothed him to see his wife sitting there op¬ 
posite to him, serene and unconscious. Au fond she 
wasn’t in the least upset by the consequences of her 
impulsive action; she seemed entirely possessed by 
the steady conviction that in sending for Father Pem¬ 
berton she had only done her duty. . . . 

Peter went off to the Towers on the following 
afternoon. Parkinson, who had been his old nurse, 
undertook the packing of his things. She still saw 
to everything that concerned him, the care, the mend¬ 
ing, and replenishing of his wardrobe. Carina gave 
him her hand in farewell, when he came to bid her 
good-bye. Her voice was very kind as she said: 
“Good-bye, Peter. Enjoy yourself. . . . I shall 

miss you.” She stood on the steps, beside Jim, wav¬ 
ing to him as the car bore him away. 

Jim linked his arm in his wife’s, and they entered 
the house together. 

“Come into my study, Car darling—I want to 
have a talk.” 

“Yes, Jim.” 

Since the preceding evening he had said nothing 
more about the Carters. But he had spent a con¬ 
siderable time shut up with Mr. Humphreys in his 
study that morning, and no doubt the subject had 
been discussed with considerable vehemence. Perhaps 
now she was to learn the upshot of it all. 

“I’m glad Peter’s gone,” said Jim. “He’s better 


21 8 


CARINA 


out of the way for a few days, till all this has blown 
over. I’d rather he didn’t know anything about it. 
It would only excite his curiosity, and he’s such a 
loyal young partisan of yours, Carina. I should 
despair of getting him to see things from the right 
angle.” 

“I think, too, it’s better he should be away. I’m 
sure Sophy irritates him,” said Carina. 

“Oh, she always has. That doesn’t matter. You 
know, Humphreys was here to-day, Car.” 

“Yes, I heard his voice,” said Carina, with un¬ 
conscious irony. 

“He wants me to dismiss Carter at once.” 

“Well, if you do, Jim, I’ll see that they don’t want 
for anything. You needn’t know—” 

Carina smiled at him. She had been making plans 
for removing Carter to the hospital at Lintown, and 
to effect a reconciliation between Mrs. Carter and 
her father. The woman could then go home for a 
little till her husband was better and another place 
could be found for him. 

She related the scheme to Jim. 

“Well, I should think that would do as well as 
anything,’’ he said. “I wish there hadn’t been all 
this fuss just now. Sophy’s down there this after¬ 
noon and she’s bound to hear all about it.” 

“Oh, don’t mind about Sophy, Jim. We’re not 
responsible to her.” 

“But Sophy will take Humphreys’ views of the 
matter—and she’ll only be in the right if she does. 
You see, he looks upon it as a deliberate attempt on 
your part to proselytize one of his parishioners. He 
went up there quite late last night—after I’d seen 
him—to talk to Carter, and he couldn’t get the man 
to say a word except that he was going to look to 
Father Pemberton to show him how to save his 
soul.” 


CARINA 


219 


“Well, dear Jim, it’ll be a very happy thing for 
poor little Mrs. Carter if her husband does become 
a Catholic.” 

Jim looked at her strangely. He had felt certain 
at times that Carina was praying for him and for 
his conversion; the process had made him restless 
and unsettled, as if her prayers had imbued him with 
a spiritual malaise. It was useless to hope that 
things could go on at Linfold just as if he had never 
introduced this novel, alien element into his house. 
Carina’s influence was too strong, too profound for 
that. And it wasn’t something that you could take 
hold of and destroy. It was elusive, like light, like 
flame. It was something that seemed to emanate 
from the burning energy of her own faith. 

But she wasn’t “noisy” about it, whatever Hum¬ 
phreys might affirm to the contrary. And, after all, 
Mrs. Carter had appealed to her, and Carina had 
felt herself in duty bound to respond to that appeal. 

“I wish Sophy wasn’t here,” he confessed; “I 
should like to have had these few days alone with 
you.” 

His voice held a touch of wistfulness. 

“Married people can’t always expect to be alone,” 
she said, “and we have been married nearly three 
months. Quite long enough for you to be very tired 
of me!” 

“Does that mean that you’re tired of it already?” 
he demanded. 

“You know it doesn’t . . . I’m so happy, Jim 

—or rather I should be if we could eliminate Mr. 
Humphreys when he’s on the warpath!” She looked 
up into his face and smiled. “Tell me you’re not 
against me!” 

“But I am against you—I must be against you. 
That doesn’t make anv difference to our love, Car¬ 
ina!” 


220 


CARINA 


“Doesn’t it? But I’m always afraid it may.” She 
felt that the moment had come, now he was in this 
softened, subdued mood. “Jim!” 

“What is it, Car darling?” 

“Soon we shan’t be alone together even when 
Sophy and Peter aren’t here!” 

For a moment he was puzzled, then he grasped 
the significance of her words. “Darling—do you 
really mean it?” 

She looked up smiling. “Do you think Peter will 
mind much?” 

“Mind? What’s it got to do with him? Why 
should he mind?” 

“He’s been your only son—your only child—for 
so long. It isn’t as if he’d ever had brothers and 
sisters.” 

“We really can’t consider Peter’s feelings!” 

“I may tell him—before he goes back to Eton?” 

“I’ll think about it. There’s no hurry.” 

“Mr. Humphreys can’t make you banish us—as 
he wants you to banish the Carters!” 

Jim’s hold of her relaxed. He remembered his 
promise, his rash unwise promise. It seemed to dim 
his great joy a little. 

Carina said slowly: “I hope it will be a little girl. 
I feel I shan’t miss Mary so much when I have a 
daughter of my own.” 

“Yes ... a little girl. That would be per¬ 
fect. I hope it’ll be a girl,” he said, and his face 
cleared a little. 

“You are glad, Jim?” 

“Very, very glad.” 

They sat there together for a long time, saying 
very little. His arms were about her, and once or 
twice he pressed his face to hers. She felt his love 
like a warm atmosphere. It was one of the happiest 
moments she had ever known. And he was sharing 


CARINA 


221 


her joy to the full. Whatever bitterness the future 
might hold, he was giving himself up then to the 
perfect happiness of the present. 

Of course it must be a girl. He had always wished 
for a little daughter. It would be so much less 
complicated than a son, who would perhaps have 
had to go to a Catholic school instead of to Eton. 
He told himself again that the mere fact of Peter’s 
existence had made it easier for him to marry a 
Catholic and assent to the required conditions. Peter 
stood between Linfold and the fear of its passing 
into Catholic hands. Carina might convert the whole 
parish if she chose, but she must leave his son alone. 
And, in a very few years he would be going to Wool¬ 
wich; he would pass quite out of the range of his 
stepmother’s influence. Just for those few years he 
must be watched, and guarded, and if need be, con¬ 
trolled. . . . 

At last Mallory said: 

“And if you ever feel you want to write, Car 
darling . . . you mustn’t let anything I’ve said 
stand in your way.” He had the feeling that with 
this ordeal awaiting her, life must be smoothed for 
her. She must have, in reason, all that she wished 
for. “It might amuse you on the days when you 
don’t feel up to going out.” 

She shook her head. Of course it was a great 
concession for Jim to make. But it had come to 
her at a moment when she did not need it any more. 

“I’m sure I shan’t want to, thank you, Jim. My 
mind’s so full of other things, and I shall have heaps 
to do, you know.” 

“It’s what I always hoped would be the case, dark 
ing.” 

Yes, this was what he had most earnestly desired, 
that Carina would some day lose the celebrity in the 
mother. She would have other and deeper interests, 


222 


CARINA 


more normal occupations. Life was rapidly molding 
her, and she offered no resistance to its wise shap¬ 
ing. 

She had never seemed so truly his. He knew now 
that he had made her happy, that he had won her 
love. At first he had doubted, and suffered, and 
struggled, and the conflict had embittered him. But 
now she had taken all his doubts away. Children’s 
voices were to be heard once more in the old house; 
children’s feet pattering down the corridors and 
stairs. Linfold would awaken to a new life. 

Carina was very quiet, and when he looked at her 
again, he saw that she was gently sleeping, her head 
against his shoulder. Jim did not dare move for 
fear of awakening her. 

He gazed almost with awe at the slumbering ex¬ 
quisite face. The bright short hair made a vivid 
patch against her pale cheek. 

Yes, he must make it easy for her to carry out her 
plan for the disposal of the Carters. It would be 
quite simple. And Mrs. Carter had never settled 
down in Linfold, couldn’t accustom herself to country 
ways. She would be glad if a job could be found 
for her husband in Lintown. 

He would go up to the cottage this very afternoon 
and see the man, and afterward he would call at the 
rectory and tell Humphreys what had been set¬ 
tled. . . . 


CHAPTER XXIII 


P ETER came into Carina’s sitting-room one 
morning soon after his return from the Towers. 
Jim had gone into Lintown; Sophia was at the 
rectory; the field was quite clear. Ever since his 
return he had been watching for an opportunity to 
talk to Carina. 

It was Blanche Chiltern’s doing. She had asked 
him many questions about his young stepmother, in¬ 
cluding several that concerned her religion. Blanche 
confessed that she longed to talk to her about it— 
it was so very seldom that one came across Catho¬ 
lics in Linfold—but young Mrs. Mallory seemed to 
be unusually reserved on the subject. 

These conversations had stimulated Peter’s inter¬ 
est. Carina, it is true, never spoke to him about 
her religion, and he had accepted without question 
the fact that she did not accompany himself and his 
father to church on Sundays. She had the car and 
went to Lintown. He told Blanche that he rather 
thought he should like to go with her once, just to 
see what it was like. But he had an idea that his 
father wouldn’t approve: he had snubbed him once 
for suggesting it. Perhaps he was afraid old Hum¬ 
phreys might make a fuss. . . . 

“Her books tell you quite a lot about it,” Blanche 
had said. 

“Do they? I began one of them once, but Dad 
told me I wasn’t to read it. Perhaps that was the 
reason.” 

Jim had not suspected danger from that quarter. 

223 


224 


CARINA 


But he had reckoned without Blanche, who had secret 
“leanings.” Her words did undoubtedly stimulate 
Peter’s curiosity, and he determined to question Car¬ 
ina the first time he found himself alone with hen 

It was no easy matter to secure an interview with 
her. To begin with, when he came back home he 
found that his father was more constantly with Car¬ 
ina than ever before. He hardly let her out of his 
sight, and when Peter suggested she should come and 
have another lesson in golf, he told him rather ab¬ 
ruptly not to worry her, adding that she wasn’t going 
to play any more because it tired her. Peter, sus¬ 
pected nothing, but his father’s possessive attitude 
was more pronounced than it had ever been. He 
could never remember that Mallory had hung about 
the house nearly all day in this manner before. Some¬ 
times he took Carina out for a short run in the car 
or for a little walk. They were almost always 
together. . . 

At last the moment had arrived and Peter went 
up to her sitting-room, and knocked at the door. She 
was writing letters, but when he came in she laid 
down her pen. 

“Good-morning, Peter.” 

“Am I disturbing you, Carina?” 

“Not at all. Do sit down. I shall have finished 
this letter in a moment.” 

She folded the paper, enclosed it in an envelope 
'and sealed it down. 

“Blanche Chiltern wants to talk to you about your 
religion,” he said without further preliminary. “She 
said you seemed very reserved about it. Don’t you 
like talking about it, Carina?” 

She hesitated, and then said: 

“But one isn’t necessarily always talking about it, 
Peter.” 

“One of my chums at Eton, Robin Winfield, is a 


CARINA 


225 


Catholic. He’s tried to tell me about it sometimes 
—but he saw it bored me. However, it won’t bore 
me now. I feel I shall want to hear everything he 
can tell me. It’s a mysterious kind of religion, isn’t 
it Carina?” 

“Yes,” said Carina, “but very simple too. How¬ 
ever, I don’t think we’ll talk about it, Peter. Your 
father wouldn’t like it.” 

“Catholics seem so different from other people,” 
he said wistfully. 

Carina’s heart sank a little. Yes, it was her 
presence at Linfold, and the fact that she was her¬ 
self a Catholic, that had stimulated the boy’s interest 
and curiosity. Then she remembered Jim’s words 
—that he was prepared to suppress any manifesta¬ 
tion of the sort in his son with the utmost severity 
of which he was capable. They were no idle words. 
However much he might now give in to her, dis¬ 
playing an increase of love and sympathy that could 
not but touch her, she knew that on this point he 
would prove inexorable. 

“Directly I’m old enough—directly I leave school 
—I mean to read up all I can about it. I shall ask 
Robin to give me the names of some books. His 
mother’s a very keen Catholic. Carina, I’ve an idea 
that I shall be one myself, one of these days. Would 
you like that?” 

What had Blanche said? “She’ll try to convert 
you, of course.” But it wasn’t true. Carina had 
never willingly spoken to him on the subject. 

He stood in front of her, waiting for her answer. 
Her eyes filled with tears. 

“Don’t ask me, dear. Your father wouldn’t like 
it—wouldn’t allow it for a moment. If you were 
to say anything, it might make him very angry. Per¬ 
haps angrier than you have ever seen him. , . 



226 


CARINA 


The boy sat down near her, and taking her hand 
in his began to play with her rings. 

“Robin’s mother is one, and his father isn’t. If 
I’d been your son should I have been a Catholic?” 

“Yes,” she answered, and as she spoke, she let her 
eyes rest upon his eager young face with a half- 
maternal longing. 

“Then if you ever have children they’ll be Cath¬ 
olics?” 

The question startled her a little. “Yes, Peter.” 

“But if Dad hates it so much?” He was frankly 
puzzled. 

“He made that promise, you see, before we were 
married.” 

“Did he? I wonder why—” 

“He had to. We couldn’t have been married 
otherwise. I had to obtain a dispensation in order 
to marry him—and that was one of the conditions 
he was obliged to agree to.” 

“Dad must have loved you most awfully to make 
such a promise as that. It must have gone against 
his conscience. . . .” 

Carina.was silent. Perhaps she alone knew how 
heavily Jim had paid in order to make her his wife. 
And the moment of actual payment would come to 
him before the year was out. What effect would it 
have upon this man of proud, wilful, and obstinate 
temper? At present his kindness and solicitude were 
beyond all words; it was almost as if he feared some¬ 
thing might step in and destroy their happiness. Of 
Jim’s love she had never felt so assured, but always 
siheknewtherewere things between them that required 
die most delicate and discreet handling. Peter that 
morning was trespassing very close to those for¬ 
bidden boundaries. He was a thoughtful boy, and 
he had arrived at an age when religion normally 
begins to interest the young. He seemed determined 


CARINA 


227 


to learn more, to know more, about his stepmother’s 
Faith. It was Carina who had herself aroused that 
interest, nor could she possibly wish that it should be 
ultimately quenched. Perhaps the path would be 
made easier for Peter when there were other 
children to be brought up, if not with Jim’s approba¬ 
tion, at least with his consent, in the Catholic Faith. 
The years must inevitably, she thought, soften some¬ 
thing of the harshness of his prejudices. 

If only the baby proved to be a little girl! A 
daughter to look at her perhaps wfith Mary’s tur¬ 
quoise blue eyes, whose head would be crowned with 
that hair of delicious silvery fairness. She said sud¬ 
denly: “Peter—I want to tell you a secret. . . .” 

“Yes?” he said. 

“Some day I hope you will have a little sister. 
She’ll be a Catholic because I am one. And you must 
love her for my sake.” 

“Yes—yes—I promise—,” he stammered eagerly. 
“When, Carina?” 

“Perhaps next August.” Her voice was very soft, 
and there was a suspicious brightness in her eyes. 

“I shall envy her, having you for a mother,” the 
boy said simply. “You see, I can scarcely remember 
mine—I was such a little chap when she died, and I 
hardly ever saw her—she was always ill.” 

“But I shall always love you, Peter, as if you 
were my own son,” she told him. She put her arms 
round him and kissed him. It made him think of 
that first night of her coming to Linfold, when she 
had called him in from the winter storm and dark¬ 
ness. 

It had been, he felt, the beginning of a new life 
for him. Her very presence checked his father’s 
temper; except that once over the book, there had 
not been a single scene between them all the holidays. 


228 


CARINA 


She made of Linfold a different place, with the sweet¬ 
ness and brightness of her presence. 

“You’ve been most awfully good to me, Carina,’’ 
he said awkwardly, “and I’m very grateful. And I 
—I hated the thought of your coming.” 

“Oh, but that was very natural,” she told him, 
laughing. “Stepmothers are always supposed to be 
horrible to their stepchildren!” 

“You see, I’d been everything to Dad for so many 
years, and I thought you’d cut me out completely—” 
he confessed. 

“You were very silly,” she told him. “Y ou’d seen 
me—you might have known I wasn’t a conspiring 
kind of person.” 

“I thought anyone so beautiful was bound to do 
whatever they liked with Dad,” remarked Peter, with 
boyish sagacity. “You mustn’t mind my telling you 
all this, Carina. It’s been different, you know, ever 
since that day you came home. When you called 
me in— 

“It was making me very unhappy,” she said. 

In the little silence that followed this mutual con¬ 
fession, Jim suddenly walked into the room. His 
face was slightly reddened from exposure to the 
keen air of the January day, and his ungloved hands 
were swollen and purple with cold. 

“Hullo, Peter! What are you doing, slacking in¬ 
doors? Why aren’t you riding this morning? I 
won’t keep a horse for you if you let it eat its head 
off!” His tone was irritable. “I hope he hasn’t 
been bothering you long, Car darling?” 

“He hasn’t been bothering me at all, Jim,” she 
answered. “And you mustn’t scold him, please. 
We’ve been having a talk.” She laid her hand 
lightly on the boy’s shoulder, and looked up smiling 
at Jim. 

He relented a little. “You spoil him, darling . . , 


CARINA 


229 


Get along, Peter, it’s nearly luncheon time—sharp 
now!” 

Peter went out of the room, a little chilled. He 
resented his father’s peremptory tone, but still he had 
had a wonderful half-hour with Carina, and it was 
well worth a brief scolding. He loved her now with 
a boy’s trembling hero-worship. Far, far better than 
he could remember loving his own mother, who now 
across the years had become an increasingly shadowy 
figure. More, even, he told himself, than he had 
ever loved his father with his capricious treatment 
of him, now fond, now severe. Her words, “/ shall 
always love you f Peter, as if you were my own son, ,} 
rang like music in his ears. She would love him 
more and not less, because of the child that was to 
be born to her. Carina’s heart was large enough to 
hold them both. . . 

“What did he want?” inquired Jim, when his son 
had gone out of the room. 

Carina said softly: “I’ve been telling him, Jim. I 
thought I should like him to hear it first from me. 
He’s bound to hear gossip in the village, or while 
he’s at school.” 

“What did he say?” asked Jim curiously. 

“Not very much. But I think on the whole he was 
pleased. He said he should envy it having me for a 
mother.” 

Jim smiled at her. “You’ll make a delicious 
mother, darling.” 

“I’m practising on Peter,” she assured him gaily. 

“I can’t have you spoiling my son!” 

“Boys need tenderness—they get so much knock¬ 
ing about.” 

“Peter’s never had half enough knocking about, 
as you call it.” 

“He’s had quite as much as is good for him,” she 
said seriously. 


230 


CARINA 


Jim scowled a little, fancying a reproach. “He’s 
none the worse for it anyhow, is he? He’s going to 
make a line man. But he’ll need lots of watching 
these next few years.” 

Carina was thankful that he was so completely 
ignorant of what was passing in the boy’s mind. 
Blanche Chiltern had stepped in where she herself 
—for Jim’s sake—would have feared to tread. But 
she knew, too, it was this very disposition in Peter 
that her husband intended to watch and if need be 
to check. The fear had from the first obsessed him. 
It had been present to his mind when he had made 
those promises before his marriage. Fortunately, 
he reflected, by the time Carina’s child was old 
enough to go to church, Peter would be grown-up 
and perhaps in the Army, spending much of his time 
away from Unfold. Surely in these few interven¬ 
ing years it would be easy to prevent him from ac¬ 
quiring too much knowledge of the Catholic religion. 

“By the way, it’s all right about Carter,” he said 
suddenly. “I have been to Lintown this morning 
and made arrangements for him to go to the hospital. 
They’ll send a motor-ambulance for him—we shall 
have to pay for that, of course. And I’ve seen 
Father Pemberton, and asked him to go and speak 
to Burton, the woman’s father, about her returning 
home for the present.” 

“May I go up to the cottage this afternoon and 
ten them what we’ve done ?” she asked. 

“Oh, there’s no necessity for you to go, and it’s 
too far for you to walk.” 

u UT ’ d J ike to go and see them again,” she said; 
you might run me up in the car, Jim,” 

“Very well,” said Jim submissively. “There’s the 

gong, Carina. Come along. I’m simply raven¬ 
ous I 

In the dining-room they found Peter waiting for 


CARINA 


231 


them; his sleek black hair brushed to a fine polish. 
As he stood there, tall, erect, slim, Jim felt a re¬ 
newed pride in his son. He would be a credit to 
him always. Some day he would worthily fulfil those 
duties to which he must ultimately succeed. And 
there was no doubt that even in these few weeks 
Carina’s influence had worked beneficially upon him. 
He was more ready to obey, much less prone to argue 
and rebel. She had softened and humanized 
him . . . He had needed some gentle influence 

of the kind. Without realizing it, he had un¬ 
doubtedly missed that wealth of tenderness which 
only a mother can give. It was this that had made 
him turn instinctively to Carina after his first jealous 
suspicions of her had been allayed. Carina, with 
quick generous response to that unuttered appeal, 
had given him royally of that tenderness. 

On the whole she had done wisely to tell him. 
From all accounts, he had received the information 
with pleasure, and his face was singularly bright and 
sunny as he took his seat at the table opposite to 
the grim granite countenance of Sophia Mallory. 

Sophia was now perfectly conversant with all the 
happenings of the Carter case. She had not yet 
spoken to Jim on the subject, but she fully intended 
to do so at the first opportunity. She meant to give 
him a word of warning. It would be quite enough 
for her to say: “Jim, I should watch Peter if I were 
you,” to make him keep an extra guard over his 
son. 

For there was no doubt that Carina had rapidly 
acquired a very strong influence over Peter. In 
Miss Mallory’s opinion she could twist him round 
her little finger. Jim had better be careful. . . . 


CHAPTER XXIV 


C ARINA’S daughter was born in August at Lady 
Murray’s house in South Kensington. Her 
aunt had suggested that she should come to her for 
the event, and Jim had agreed, because although he 
would have preferred his child to be born at Linfold, 
he reflected that it would be far easier to get the bap¬ 
tism safely over in London, without any remon¬ 
strance from Mr. Humphreys. 

This ceremony indeed took place only a couple of 
days later, and Lady Murray and Jim were both 
present at it, as well as Richard Grove, who quite 
surprisingly had been invited by Mallory to be the 
godfather. He had asked Carina if she would like 
this, and had had the pleasure of seeing that she was 
both touched and grateful. The baby was baptized 
Mary Antonia, and already Carina called her Tony. 

She was like Jim, having his raven hair and dark 
eyes, but she had her mother’s delicate grace of fea¬ 
ture and smallness of limb. 

Sophia was not in London, preferring to remain 
at Linfold to u look after Peter,” a process which 
he would most gladly have dispensed with. He 
hoped that his father would send for him soon, to 
go up and see Carina and the baby. He was glad 
to have a little sister. . . . 

Jim bit his bullet well, on the whole. He hadn’t 
liked, it, although he could not help acknowledging 
to himself that the little ceremony had been both 
solemn and beautiful. And, after all, a girl didn’t 
matter so much. ... 

Resides, Carina in her new role of mother was un- 

232 


CARINA 


*33 


utter ably beautiful and charming, and he felt that 
even if he hadn’t made the promises, he would have 
found it difficult to refuse her anything just then. 
Lady Murray too had been kindness itself, cheering 
and encouraging him through the inevitable hours 
of anxiety. But now it was happily over, Carina 
was making a rapid recovery, and he had never 
seen her so gay. The child too was strong and 
healthy, a lovely little thing. Jim paid his debt 
without a murmur. 

In a brief letter to Sophia, he wrote: “The baby 
was baptized this morning at the Oratory. We have 
called her Mary Antonia—Mary, after Carina’s 
sister. I think she will always be known as Tony.” 

Lady Chiltern had come over to see Sophia and 
to hear the latest accounts soon after the arrival of 
this letter. Miss Mallory eagerly communicated its 
contents to her visitor. 

“Of course he must feel it terribly; what man 
wouldn’t?” she said. “And Jim is so conservative. 
Besides, it may affect Peter—I know he has always 
been afraid of that.” 

‘T)h, Peter will be going to Woolwich in a year 
or two,” said Lady Chiltern, “and after that he’ll 
hardly be at home at all. And then I thought Jim 
had made it quite clear from the first that she 
mustn’t attempt any proselytizing.” Her tone was 
uniformly cheerful and hopeful. 

“Carina,” said Sophia solemnly, “is a witch.” 

Lady Chiltern laughed. “All beautiful women are, 
my dear!” 

Sophia shook her head. “She makes a fool of 
Jim. And it gets worse. He’s wrapped up in her. 
The fuss he makes!” 

“Well, he looks very happy. It seems to agree 
with him. And one can’t be surprised at his making 
a fuss with that lovely young thing!” 


CARINA 


234 

Sophia had borne with Iris Mallory because, after 
her marriage, she had shown herself uniformly help¬ 
less and weak, trying so hard to please Jim that she 
had ended by not pleasing him at all. He had 
wearied of her only too rapidly. But Carina was 
made of very different stuff, as Sophia was shrewd 
enough to perceive. She had a decisive independent 
character, and then she had never been blindly in 
love with Jim as poor little Iris had been. She had 
had her own way since coming to Unfold to quite 
a surprising degree—witness Jim’s far too lenient 
treatment of the Carters. They were prospering now 
in Lintown—the man had become a Catholic and was 
in good work too, a job having been found for him 
by his father-in-law. All Carina’s doing, of course; 
she had interfered in a matter which didn’t concern 
her, and Jim had tamely acquiesced. If she had 
given in and not written a line since her marriage, 
that was probably because she hadn’t wanted to. Jim 
would certainly have rescinded his prohibition if she 
had asked for it. . . . 

“You’ll see, she’ll do exactly what she likes with 
that child of hers. Jim won’t have any say in the 
matter,” continued Sophia, in a tone of gloomy 
prophecy. “When I think of Iris and Peter—” She 
stopped short. 

“Iris was very different,” said Lady Chiltern, who 
had been really fond of the first Mrs. Mallory, 
although recognizing that she was wholly unsuited 
to Jim. “Carina is quite modern. She was inde¬ 
pendent before she married. I always think that 
makes a great difference to a girl.” 

Something in Sophia’s hostile tone displeased her. 
She liked C arina. And Sophia wa*s capable of mak¬ 
ing mischief. . . . 

“And when you think Jim actually invited Richard 


CARINA 235 

Grove to be one of the godparents!” continued Miss 
Mallory. 

“Why shouldn’t he? Such an old friend of the 
family,” murmured Lady Chiltern, pacifically. 

“Jim can’t bear him. I believe he put his foot 
down about the friendship.” 

“I think Miss Tony’s very lucky to have such a 
celebrated godfather,” said Lady Chiltem, pleasant¬ 
ly . 

“Jim has never cared for celebrities. It would 
have been appalling if Carina had dragged him into 
a dreadful Bohemian set!” 

? “Lady Murray has a high opinion of Mr. Grove— 
I’ve 'heard her say so. He was so kind to those two 
poor girls after their father’s death.” 

# “But isn’t it dreadful to think of those two young 
girls living alone in a flat in Rome? No one to 
chaperon them or look after them, except Richard 
Grove.” There was an increase of acerbity in 
Sophia’s tone. 

“My dear Sophy, he was never in Rome till after 
the sister’s death. I believe he did go out then to 
see if he could help Carina.” 

Sophia was silenced by something in Lady Chil- 
tern’s tone that suggested disapproval. 

“And they managed so wonderfully, poor children. 
A friend of mine knows Lady Murray very well and 
heard the whole story from her. Carina behaved 
like a little heroine all through her sister’s illness, 
she worked like a slave, and nursed her into the 
bargain! It was during the War, too, when things 
were so difficult everywhere. It’s such a comfort 
to feel the poor child had such a happy fate in store 
for her. Do you know, I think Jim’s to be envied 
his good fortune?” 

“Jim might have married anyone!” returned 
Sophia, with renewed spirit. 


236 


CARINA 


“Yes, and he had the good sense to choose Car¬ 
ina. I like a woman of character—fearless and 
capable. It seems to me she’s just the right wife for 
Jim, and just the right stepmother for Peter!” 

Sophia was completely silenced now. Carina cer¬ 
tainly had an able defender in Lady Chiltern. 

“Of course, you heard that Mr. Humphreys caught 
her proselytizing in the village,” said Miss Mall¬ 
ory presently. 

“Proselytizing in the village ? Oh, my dear—sure¬ 
ly you must be exaggerating? Blanche told me she 
couldn’t get her to talk about her religion at all. It 
was a relief to my mind, for she would have found 
such a willing victim in poor dear Blanche.” 

“Jim was very much upset. Carina found out that 
that silly little woman, Mrs. Carter, who came from 
Lintown, was a Catholic and hadn’t had the baby 
baptized. Mr. Humphreys had spoken to the man 
repeatedly about it. But he fell ill, and Carina sent 
word to the priest, and he motored over—Mrs. 
Humphreys saw him pass the rectory—and he not 
only baptized the baby, but proceeded at once to 
instruct the husband. Of course, Mr. Humphreys 
couldn t have that sort of thing taking place in his 
parish, and he told Jim they must be sent away.” 

“And have they gone?” inquired Lady Chiltern, 
who could not help feeling Interested in the little 
narrative. 

Yes. Back to Lintown. I believe the man’s got 
work there.” 

“Then it all ended very happily,” said Lady Chil¬ 
tern. “And if Jim finds himself in an awkward posi¬ 
tion every now and then, he has only himself to 
blame for marrying a Catholic. It was such a brave 
thing to do, wasn’t it? He couldn’t marry Carina 
under any other condition, except that of bringing 
up their children as Catholics. I hear he told Mr. 


CARINA 


237 


Humphreys that there was absolutely no chance ol 
winning her unless he made the promises.” 

“And Jim of all people in the world!” subjoined 
Sophia. “Doesn’t it show you what a sinister in¬ 
fluence Carina has over him? And how’s he going 
to stop her getting hold of Peter too. The boy 
worships her.” 

“Would Jim mind so very much?” inquired Lady 
Chiltern. 

“Mind? Of course he would mind!” Sophia gave 
her massive head a toss. “He would disinherit him 
at once. He would never let Linfold pass into Cath¬ 
olic hands.” She spoke with energetic conviction. 

“But, my dear Sophy, supposing he did disinherit 
Peter, the estates surely would pass to Carina’s 
children? And they are all to be Catholics. It 
wouldn’t be the slightest use for Jim to cut Peter off 
with a shilling.” 

.The argument was on the face of it unanswerable. 
Lady Chiltern had undoubtedly scored a point. She 
added triumphantly: 

“You see, whichever way you look at it, Jim has 
burnt his boats.” 

Sophia received this assertion in gloomy silence. 
There was no doubt that Jim’s path was beset with 
difficulties. He was more desperately in love with 
Carina than ever since the birth of Tony, and he 
would be less and less likely to suspect her influence 
over Peter. And it was just that influence which 
Sophia so passionately resented. There was nothing 
to be said against Mrs. Mallory as a wife. She 
was uniformly charming to Jim, and of course she 
was young, pretty and gay, and her presence added 
sensibly to the general cheerfulness of Linfold. She 
had a happy contented nature, and had adapted her¬ 
self with a certain grace to her new surroundings. 
Sophia was prepared to grant all this, but it was her 


238 


CARINA 


influence over Peter-that she felt to be so dangerous. 
She was certain that it muvst ultimately pull against 
his father’s legitimate authority. Jim, too, seemed 
more soft and lenient with Peter, probably because 
Carina objected to any severity. Sophia was often 
actuated by obscure jealousies which she scarcely re¬ 
cognized under such a harsh name; she would have 
called this particular one anxiety for Jim. He mustn’t 

be fooled by the two people who were dearest to 
him in the world. . . . 

“When are they coming down?” inquired Lady 
Chiltern. 

At the end of next week,” responded Sophia 
gloomily. “I shall just wait to see them and then 
I m going home. I wish Jim would send Peter to 
France for the rest of his holidays—he’s very back¬ 
ward in French. And it’s such a long time for him 
to be here, seeing Carina every day.” 

.“We must hope for the best!” said Lady Chiltern, 
with a slightly ironical laugh. She considered that 
dear Sophy was making mountains out of very di¬ 
minutive molehills. “Well, I shall come over and see 
them as soon as possible and bring Blanche. Blanche 
adores babies.” 

She rose to go. Sophia accompanied her to the 
oor. On the whole, she had found her less sympa¬ 
thetic about Carina than she could have hoped. But, 
then, Carina bewitched everyone—men and women 
alike. All s fish that comes to her net,” Miss Mall¬ 
ory thought dejectedly. And she had a pretty firm 
conviction that Jim would return home more enslaved 
than ever. 

She was not mistaken. Her brother had turned 
to his wife with a fresh passion of adoration. He 
never spoke and apparently never thought of anyone 
but Carina and her baby. Sophia herself, even Peter, 


CARINA 


239 


was relegated to the background, mere shadows in 
the face of these new domestic joys. Such presents, 
too, as he had showered upon his wife ! A long string 
of pearls that Carina wore just as carelessly as if they 
had been sold by the yard; a wonderful diamond 
ring that as often as not rolled off her little thin 
finger, and had to be retrieved from under a sofa 
or cabinet; delicate silken wrappings that Sophia’s 
sagacious eye immediately recognized as of Parisian 
origin, and of a reckless costliness. 

The little party motored down from London, ar¬ 
riving toward the close of an August day. The great 
heat had gone, and there was a cool refreshing wind 
blowing in from the sea. Sophia and Peter were 
standing on the terrace as the car approached, in 
readiness to welcome Carina on this her second 
home-coming. Jim helped her out with the utmost 
solicitude, and insisted upon her going up to her room 
at once. She must have her tea upstairs, he said. 
Carina, looking pretty but rather frail, assented. 
She was a little tired after the journey, and the 
rapid movement of the car had made- her head swim. 
She greeted Sophia pleasantly, and Peter with an 
eager affection, as if fearful that he might consider 
himself ousted by the little newcomer. But the boy 
was all eagerness to see the baby. No touch of 
jealousy perturbed him . . . Jim watched him 

as he bent over the tiny scrap of humanity almost 
concealed beneath a mass of muslin and silk. 

Sophia had often prophesied ill of the marriage, 
but she was obliged to confess to herself that night 
that it hadn’t turned out so badly after all. There 
was no doubt of Jim’s happiness, and that Carina 
was really devoted to her husband, she was begin¬ 
ning to perceive. If only she would keep her hands 
off Peter! . . . That was precisely where 

danger lurked and menaced. Sophia had not the 


240 


CARINA 


slightest fear of Jim’s conversion. He wasn’t the 
kind of man ever to be swayed by spiritual emotion 
of any kind. There was something firm and hard 
and resistant about him. But Peter had something 
of Iris’s softness, something too of her nervous im¬ 
pressionability; he had more temperament than his 
father, and was, besides, far more naturally reli¬ 
gious. 

Already, though they had only been in the house 
a few hours, Sophia felt out of it. I hey didn’t want 
her at ah, though they were so kind and thoughtful, 
and anxious that she shouldn’t be forgotten; they 
didn t even want Peter, though there was a fixed 
determination to make him feel part of the little 
group. They only wanted each other and their child. 
It was wonderful that Peter should accept these 
changed conditions without either anger or jealousy. 
He seemed to wish only, as far as Sophia could see, 

to be permitted to wait hand and foot on his step¬ 
mother. r 

She realized with bitterness that, excepting for the 
rector and his family, Carina had the whole neigh¬ 
borhood on her side. Lady Chikern led public 
opinion a good deal around and about Linfold, and 
it was quite certain that she had become a ready 
victim to Carina’s captivating charm. 

. Of course, I know that, to use a vulgar expres¬ 
sion, she wiped my dear Blanche’s eye,” Lady Chil- 
tern had been heard to remark with a certain rueful 
irony But when you look at her, you can perfect¬ 
ly understand it. The only wonder is that she ever 
accepted him. She might have done even better but 
of course it would never do to tell Sophy Mallory 

SO. 


CHAPTER XXV 


C ARINA lay on a couch near the window of her 
sitting-room. She could feel the soft summer 
air, with the tinge of brackishness that gave it such 
a delicious quality, flowing in upon her face. Below 
her was the terraced garden with its clipped box 
borders, its formal beds, its gleaming statues, made 
a hundred years ago in enthusiastic imitation of an 
Italian one. At one side there was a pergola of 
roses, bright with some late ramblers, on the other 
was a sunk pond upon Which some white lilies floated 
among their thick burnished leaves. A stone balus¬ 
trade divided the terrace from the sunk fence, beyond 
which the green sward and great trees of the park 
stretched out in cool vistas of mingled sun and shade. 
Through a gap in the downs that in the delicate 
distance showed their grey silhouettes against the 
sky, she could see the dim blue glimpse of sea. 
Already she loved the view, and all that it meant 
to her. In less than a year Linfold had taken com¬ 
plete possession of her heart, and she could imagine 
no happiness apart from it. Lady Murray had done 
well to urge this marriage upon her. It had been 
productive of great joys. 

The baby’s cradle was placed close to her couch, 
and by lifting her hand she could draw aside the 
filmy shell-pink curtains and see the little dark head 
lying within. It was now nearly three weeks since 
she had passed through those mysteriously cruel 
phases of suffering to win her motherhood. And 
as she looked out at the golden August evening, its 

241 


242 


CARINA 


peace, its tranquillity, its quiet calm, she felt perfectly 
happy and satisfied. Surely no woman had ever re¬ 
ceived so much. Those slight disturbances, due to 
a want of adjustment, that had fretted her married 
life during its first months, had quite passed away. 
She knew Jim better, understood him better, was 
aware of his idiosyncrasies, and was thus able to 
avoid anything likely to displease him or arouse his 
slightly brittle temper. She knew that he loved her 
better now than he had ever done before. She did 
not love him more, but she was aware that her love 
for him had undergone a subtle change and pos¬ 
sessed a new and more stable quality. The child 
had bound them together. It was something across 
which they could look fearlessly into each other’s 
eyes, even despite temporary anger and disagree¬ 
ment. 

He came softly into the room. But he was part 
of the dream now; his presence could never signify 
an intrusion. She held out her hand to him. He 
bent down and kissed her, lingering a little over the 
embrace. 

‘‘Well, darling?” he said, sitting down beside her. 

“I’ve been lying and looking at it. It’s all so 
beautiful this evening, isn’t it?” 

“Yes,” said Jim. “But Linfold’s always beautiful 
—summer and winter. And now you’ve made it per¬ 
fect. It wanted something—something that you’ve 
given it, Carina.” His voice was all softened with 
tenderness. 

“I’m so glad you feel that, Jim. . . 

He thought sihe had never looked so mysteriously 
beautiful as she did to-day. The slight rather long 
oval of her face was a little sharpened by illness, and 
looked pale against the bright almost fierce gold of 
her clipped hair. There was a new, very soft ex¬ 
pression in her eyes and about her mouth. She 


CARINA 


243 


looked quite absurdly young for her twenty-six years 
—almost like a child. 

“It’s ripping being back at home—you and I and 
Tony.” he said. 

“And Peter—” she added softly. 

“And of course Peter,” said Jim. “What made 
you think of him?” 

‘I don’t want him to feel that he’s left out in the 
cold!” 

“I’m sure he doesn’t do that. He adores his little 
sister.” 

“Yes, he’s wonderfully gentle with her.” 

Jim glanced at the cradle. In his present happi¬ 
ness he felt but little remorse for his past weakness. 
It was astonishing even to himself that he should 
feel so indifferent about the fact of his own child 
having been baptized a Catholic. It was almost 
natural that a little girl should be brought up in her 
mother’s Faith. A son would have been a much 
more complicated affair. And yet he was dimly 
aware that Carina wished for a son. 

He rose, rather abruptly. “I must go. You know, 
I promised to run Sophia home in the car. She’s 
waiting.” 

Again he kissed her. She was so beautiful . . . 

a wonder-woman ... He had hurt her in the 
past, and now he blamed himself bitterly for those 
outbursts of ill-temper; he wished she could never 
have known that side of him. That day in Rome 
for instance, when .they had met Grove; his anger 
about the book. Yes, it had always been his fault, 
and he was thankful to think he had never really 
disturbed that calm sweet tranquillity of hers. She 
was so controlled, so disciplined. She had never 
responded either with anger to match his own, or 
with helpless reproachful tears. And she bore no 


244 CARINA 

malice; she met his tenderness with a cool tender¬ 
ness of her own. 

She looked up smiling into his face. “Come back 
again soon!” 

When he had gone, she suddenly thought of Iris. 
She had been thinking a great deal of her lately, had 
wondered a little at the failure of Jim’s first mar¬ 
riage. Iris must have known him in this softened 
mood; she had been nearer to him in spiritual things; 
she had loved him perhaps better than Carina had 
ever done; they had been young together, and she 
had put his first-born into his arms. Yes, it always 
puzzled her when she thought of Iris. Since coming 
to Linfold, she had seen many photographs of her, 
thrust perhaps carelessly away in the drawers of 
writing-tables, or hanging in Peter’s room. They 
had shown her under many aspects, as a young girl, 
with dark hair flowing over her shoulders, rather 
heavy in figure, wearing the now strange dress of 
the middle nineties with its fantastically enormous 
sleeves. Then as a bride, with a sensitive wistful 
face, 'her hair drawn up over a pad, her full skirts 
hiding her feet. Then with her baby in her arms. 
This was an enlargement made from a smaller pho¬ 
tograph, and it hung framed over Peter’s bed. Even 
in this one she was no longer so pretty, and one could 
see how thin she had grown. There was a rather 
painful photograph of her, taken a few weeks before 
she died, lying emaciated and worn on a couch in 
the garden. But the thought of Iris invariably 
aroused Carina’s compassion. Jim had owned that 
he hadn’t always been kind, and she knew too that 
at a very early age he had removed Peter from his 
mother’s influence and sent him to school. He had 
taught him to ride, to hunt, to play games, to be fear¬ 
less and manly. # And Iris had perhaps looked on, 
sick and trembling, a prey to nervous fears. She 


CARINA 


245 

was quite powerless. Illness had only deepened her 
little tragedy. . . . 

The nurse came into the room at that moment 
and Carina said to her quickly: 

“Give baby to me, please, nurse!” 

The woman looked astonished. “Oh, I think it 
would be best not to disturb her, ma’am. She’s 
sleeping so beautifully.” 

“No—give her to me—I want her,” said Carina, 
almost with a touch of passion. 

She looked overwrought and excited. Her cheeks 
were flushed, and her eyes very bright. The nurse 
wondered if yesterday’s journey had tired her and 
given her perhaps a touch of fever. She had never 
seen her in this mood before. Carina had been 
perfectly normal, had shown courage and control. 
Now for the first time she was displaying signs of 
nerves and fear. What had alarmed her? 

The nurse lifted the slumbering infant from its 
crib, and placed it in Carina’s eager, outstretched 
arms. Mrs. Mallory clasped it almost convul¬ 
sively. 

“There—don’t wake her,” urged the nurse, a little 
puzzled. 

Carina was saying to herself: “He shall never take 
you away from me. Never—never. Iris must have 
been weak with him. And it’s there—that iron will 
—though he hides it now. He’s capable of doing 
it—just as he did with Peter. But it’s different for 
us—we’re Catholics. That makes you far more 
mine than his . . .” She covered the child’s face 

with kisses. Tony, unaccustomed to such vehemence 
of affection, awoke and began to cry. 

“Let me take her, ma’am. She’ll tire you,” said 
the nurse, patiently. 

Carina suffered her to take Tony from her. But 
when she saw the woman going toward the door 


246 


CARINA 


she cried out: “No! Don’t take her away! I want 
her near me. . . 

She sank back exhausted. There were tears in 
her eyes. 

The woman slowly retraced her footsteps, rock¬ 
ing the baby in her arms, and soothing it to sleep. 
“Something’s happened to upset her,” she thought. 
“It’s Mr. Mallory, you may depend. He was up 
here not so long ago, and he must have said some¬ 
thing . . . She was quite all right before. 

Never saw anyone less nervous and hysterical.” 

“There—there—try to keep quiet, ma’am. You 
will only make yourself ill, and that will vex Mr. 
Mallory.” 

Carina lay there very quietly, her eyes closed, and 
the black lashes making a sharp defined line against 
her cheek. Presently she looked up again and said: 
Let me have her now, nurse; I won’t wake her.” 

Reluctantly the nurse put the baby back in her 
arms. It was thus that Jim found them when an 
hour later he returned from Middleford. 

“My dear Carina—you ought to be resting.” 

“That’s what I told Mrs. Mallory,” said the 
nurse. “But she asked for the baby.” 

“Put her back in the cradle, please,” said Jim. 

But Carina clasped the little form. “No, Jim- 
let me have her. She’s so comfortable like this.” 

She looked up at him and he perceived the traces 
of those recent tears on her face. He signed to 
the nurse to leave the room, and then said: “Dar- 
hng, has anything upset you since I’ve been awav ? ” 

No, no . . said Carina. “If anythmg 

upset me it was my own foolish thoughts.” 

It was impossible, however, to reveal those foolish 
thoughts to Jim and she tried to change the subject. 
She pushed aside the little soft shawl and said: 
l.ook at lony, Jim. Isn’t she lovely?” 


CARINA 


247 


It had the desired effect. He bent down and their 
three faces were close together. 

“Yes,” he said. “But she’s quite a Mallory, Car.” 

“Girls nearly always take after their fathers. 
Peter—” she hesitated, “isn’t Peter like his mother, 
Jim?” 

A shadow crossed Jim’s face. “In some ways,” 
he said, rather curtly, “but I don’t think he’s much 
like her now. Perhaps a little about the mouth. And 
then his eyes are blue like hers were, though I always 
think they’re more like my mother’s. She had such 
wonderful blue eyes!” 

He didn’t want to talk about Iris now. The thought 
of her was always associated in his mind with a 
vague remorse. What had made Carina speak of 
her this evening? 

“You are more to me than Iris ever was!” he 
declared. “I’m happier now than I’ve ever been 
before. Happier than I’ve ever thought it could be 
possible to be!” 

The assurance drove some of those gloomy morbid 
thoughts from her mind. Of course she could de¬ 
pend upon Jim. He loved her, and he had never 
truly loved Iris. 

He lifted her hair delicately in his fingers. It was 
soft as floss silk, but fine as very thick hair seldom 
is. Its warm rich gold shone with a kind of burnished 
lustre. Without it Carina might have seemed color¬ 
less and inconspicuous, with her white narrow face, 
her dark grey-green eyes. 

“Tell me you’re happy, too,” he whispered. “You 
were crying just now, but I hadn’t said or done any¬ 
thing to make you cry, had I?” 

“Oh, no—Jim—it was just weakness, foolishness. 
Of course I’m very happy.” 

“You’ve made me feel so much more sure of your 
love lately,” he said slowly, looking at her very in- 


248 


CARINA 


tently. “I used not to feel so sure. It made me ir¬ 
ritable—miserable. You were so young—so un¬ 
aware. I’d taken you away from your old life—all 
the effort, the excitement, the success, even the fame.” 

She colored faintly under his scrutiny. Jim was 
not subtle, but he possessed a singularly clear vision. 

“I felt you didn’t always consider that what I’d 
given you, made up for all that I’d deprived you 
of—” he added. 

“Deprived me of?” she repeated, and her clasp 
of the baby tightened a little. 

“Oh, well, you know what I mean, Car. That 
writing business—it was always rather hateful to me, 
and I couldn’t help showing it. I ought to have 
waited patiently until you had your child. I ought 
to have known that a child would absorb all your 
thoughts—your energies.” 

“But, Jim—I. can’t promise that it won’t come 
back the old wish to write. It’s been in abeyance, 
I know, because all my thoughts and prayers were 
so concentrated upon Tony. But later 
Would you mind it now so very much, Jim? You 
spoil me so.” 

His face stiffened a little. 

“Yes, I should mind it, Carina. Did Grove say 
anything to you about writing again?” 

“No—I hardly saw him—the only thing he did 
was to give me a message from Swaine, to say they’d 
be^glad to have another book in the Spring.” 

“But you couldn’t in any case write another book 
before the Spring,” said Jim. 

“No, I suppose not,” said Carina. 

“And you won’t, will you, Car darling? For my 
sake?” he urged. 

More than ever did he dislike the thought of any 
pubhcity for his wife. Mrs. Mallory of Linfold 
rark must be unknown to fame. Deep, too, in his 


CARINA 


249 


heart was a scarcely acknowledged fear of being 
known himself as Carina Ramsden’s husband. Like 
many men who are at once generous and jealous, he 
preferred to have all the giving on his side. 

“Very well, Jim,” she said. 

She realized then that fundamentally he hadn’t 
altered at all. In his heart his dislike of her religion 
and her work was as deep as ever. It was only out¬ 
wardly that his love for her had softened him. Her 
heart sank a little to find that they were no nearer 
to each other than they had ever been. Their souls 
were deeply, permanently estranged, and she knew 
of no bridge by which she could cross those deeps 
and go to him. No man could be more tender and 
loving than Jim Mallory, but none could be harder 
and more obdurate. Just now he was devotedly de¬ 
termined to give her everything that in his own judg¬ 
ment she ought to have. But she would not have 
dared ask for what she really needed—her own 
chapel in the house, and the permission when she 
was well to take up her writing again. 

She glanced at the baby sleeping on her arm. 
Tony . . . her own daughter. The child who 

was to be brought up in the Faith. Yes, she could 
give it that splendid heritage, in comparison with 
which Jim’s wealth counted not at all. She had 
hoped that with the coming of the child he would 
envisage her Faith differently. He would see—sure¬ 
ly he must learn to see!—how beautiful it was, rich 
in lovely grace. 

“You must let me drop a line to Swaine and tell 
him there’s not the smallest chance of your being 
able to let them have a book next year,” he said. 

The words chilled Carina. But she only said: 

“Do just as you like about it, Jim. I sometimes 
wish you were quite a poor man and out of a job, 


250 


CARINA 


and then I should have to work to keep you and 
T °ny J” 

“What a truly horrible idea!” said Jim, laugh¬ 
ing. 

He felt he could never let Carina go away into 
that imaginary world of her own creating, diligent 
and absorbed in matters that did not concern him at 
all. He could not forget how deeply his pride had 
been wounded by her apparent obliviousness of all 
that concerned him, during those weeks she had spent 
writing in Cornwall before their marriage. 

“You’ve got Tony—isn’t that enough?” he said. 
“Why, if you began to write again, you might neg¬ 
lect her!” 


This time it was Carina who laughed almost joy¬ 
ously. 

“Neglect Tony! Why I should have her close 
to me in her cradle all the time!” 

But from that moment the matter was put aside, 
as if by mutual consent. There were still boundaries 
across which her feet might not trespass; subjects 
that could bring the lowering frown swiftly to his 
brow. As he rose to go away, he lingered for a 
second by her side. 

“Carina, we both made sacrifices when we mar¬ 
ried, and we mustn’t try to get each other to go 
back on them.” 

There was a note of warning in his voice. It was 
as if he wanted to remind her that while she held 
him to the letter of his promise, he intended also to 
exact from her a corresponding sacrifice. 

“No, Jim—we mustn’t do that!” 

He hurried away. It was fortunate, he told him¬ 
self, that Carina was so unconscious of her own 
power. It was getting more and more difficult to 
refuse her anything. 


CHAPTER XXVI 


OME and talk to me, Peter.” 

Carina was lying out on the lawn. The 
weather was still bright and sunny, but a little autumn 
haze hung over the sea, and the trees in the Park 
were already faintly touched with gold. 

Before very long, Peter would be returning to 
Eton. And since she had come back to Linfold, 
Carina had seen comparatively little of him. He 
had been away now and then for a few days, stay¬ 
ing with school friends, and when he was at Lin¬ 
fold his father constantly claimed his company. But 
to-day Jim had motored over to see Sophia, and 
though he had suggested that Peter should accom¬ 
pany him, the boy had made a slight grimace and 
said: “I’m sure Aunt Sophy would rather have you 
to herself. I shall play a round of golf.” 

When the round was finished, he had returned 
to find Carina in the garden. 

“We’ll have tea,” she said. “Go and tell them 
to bring it, Peter.” 

Tea was brought, and he insisted upon pouring 
it out, and waiting upon her. 

“It’s so jolly finding you alone,” he said.. “It 
hardly ever happens now. And I hated Linfold 
when you were away in London.” 

Every term made a striking difference now in 
Peter’s growth and development. In many ways he 
was mature for his years, with a certain seriousness 
of outlook. He was ambitious and worked hard. 
He had a strong motive for wishing to succeed; he 
felt sure it would please Carina. At fifteen he had 

251 


252 


CARINA 


almost reached his full height, and he had the clean, 
wholesome supple look of the trained athlete. His 
brown face, his sleek black hair, the dark eyes look¬ 
ing like twin blue pools, his long grace of limb, made 
him a very attractive young creature. And he was 
feeling just now enormously fit. It was so jolly to 
come back and find Carina there with that darling 
baby of hers. Already he felt a strong proprietary 
interest in his little sister. She was such a jolly kid, 
and hardly ever cried. 

Carina looked at him and thought: If his mother 
could see him now! 

The thought hurt her, stabbing her with a new 
fear. She glanced toward Tony’s cradle. But no— 
she couldn’t die, as Iris had died, when her child 
w r as only a few years old. She must live to teach it. 
It would be even worse for her than it had been for 
Iris to be separated from her child. 

Peter had finished his tea, and had been sitting 
for some minutes in silence. Then he said: 

“Carina—I’ve got something to tell you. But you 
must promise first not to tell Dad. At least not 
yet.” 

“But you know I oughtn’t to have any secrets from 
your father, Peter,” she said, smiling. 

“Boys often tell their mothers things they wouldn’t 
like their fathers to know. It’s because mothers are 
more understanding and more forgiving.” 

She felt a little stab of anxiety. Still the appeal 
was almost irresistible. And perhaps whatever it 
was she had better hear it. 

“You can tell me, Peter. . . 

“When I was staying with the Pickerings last week 
my friend Winfield was there.” 

“Winfield? I don’t seem to remember the name.” 

“The one I told you about—whose mother’s a 
Catholic.” 


CARINA 


253 

“Oh!” Carina’s exclamation was almost a gasp 
of surprise. 

“He lent me a book—I used to read it when I 
was in bed. It was called, The Credentials of the 
Catholic Church.” 

She felt a shock of surprise, coupled with joy, and, 
alas, deeply tinged with fear. 

“It’s a wonderful book,” said Peter musingly. 

“Yes,” she assented. 

“No one could read it and not see that the Catho¬ 
lic Church is very different from what we are taught 
about it in history.” 

She was silent. Even the very fact of listening 
to him gave her a faint sense of disloyalty toward 
Jim. Peter said at last in a low tone: 

“It made me wish to be a Catholic, Carina; it made 
me determine to become one directly I’m old enough 
to have my own way in the matter. People can 
Choose, can’t they? I suppose—just at first at least— 
Dad would be most awfully against it.” 

“Yes, I’m sure he would, Peter.” 

“But then what did he do about Tony? Wasn t 
she baptized a Catholic? Winfield asked me that, 
and I couldn’t tell him.” 

“Yes, she was baptized in a Catholic church in 
London.” 

“Dad didn’t mind?” . 

“He said nothing. You see, he’d promised. 

“But if he lets one of his children be a Catholic 
he can’t say anything if the other wishes to be one!” 
There was triumph in Peter’s tone. ^ 

“But it’s different for you, dear. Your mother— 

“Yes, yes, I know. But I’m thinking of Dad. He 
can’t be so fearfully prejudiced, or he wouldn’t have 
given in about Tony.” 

“Peter, don’t you realize that I couldn t have mar¬ 
ried your father unless he’d made those promises?” 


254 


CARINA 


“Is the Church as strict as all that?” he asked, in 
an awe-struck tone. 

“Yes. The Church has to safeguard the faith of 
her unborn children.” 

Peter was silent. At last he said: 

I d known Winfield for some time, but I never 
thought about the Catholic Church until you came 
here, Carina. I used to think it must be a bore, 
haying to go to confession and not eat meat on 
Fridays and all that. But that book—it was ex¬ 
traordinary—it seemed to open my eyes. Like a blind 
man receiving sight. I want to be a Catholic, Car- 
|j! a ; Even if I knew Dad would kick me out and 
disinherit me, I don t believe it would make the small¬ 
est difference. But with you and Tony, I simply don't 
see how he can.” 

She longed then to tell him exactly what his 
father s feelings on the subject were. That he was 
prepared to suppress any disposition of the kind in 
his son with the utmost severity. And even for her 
sake, loving her as he did, she could not believe that 
Jim would refrain from fulfilling his threat to the 
letter. He was still capable of enforcing his iron 
will upon Peter. 

“You’ll have to wait some years, Peter. I think 
any priest would urge you to wait. You see, you’re 
hardly sixteen yet.” 


mg responsibility, but in her still weak state she 
snrank from the srenpQ that- i 




CARINA 


255 


seemed to be convinced that his father’s prejudices 
must necessarily be weakened, now that he possessed 
a Catholic wife and child. Carina, less sure on the 
point, wished with all her heart that Peter could have 
waited a few years before coming to his present 
decision. 

“There’s Dad,” he observed, as Jim’s figure came 
striding up from the garage. 

“Don’t say anything to him now,” Carina said 
nervously. 

Jim approached the little group on the lawn. 

“Sophy kept me rather a long time. She had 
some tiresome legal business for me to look into,” 
he remarked. “Is there any tea there, Carina?” 

“You’d better have some fresh. Run and tell 
them, Peter.” 

The boy ran off. 

“I hope you haven’t been letting Peter tire you, 
Car darling?” 

She shook her head. “He never tires me. I like 
having him.” 

“He’s wonderfully improved. I never saw such 
a change—” said Jim. “I haven’t had to speak to 
him once these holidays. I’m proud of my son, Car- 
ina.” 

“I’m sure you must be. He’s a dear boy, Jim.” 

Tony woke and began to whimper. Jim lifted her 
from the cradle and put her into Carina’s arms. 
When Peter came back he found them both absorbed 
with the baby. He regarded them whimsically. 

“I’m quite cut out now,” he said. 

Carina looked up quickly. “Never, dear Peter. 
You’ve got your own special place!” 

She put out her hand and touched Peter’s, and as 
she did so she looked at Jim, with a smile that was 
full of trust and confidence. It was as if she wished 
to bring the father and son closer together, so close 


256 


CARINA 


indeed that when the time came for Peter to carry 
out his resolve and become a Catholic, Jim would 
accept it. with temperance and wisdom, recognizing 
also its inevitability. At that moment Carina had 
a very strong wish to help Peter. They both loved 
her, and she felt that while that love lasted they 
could never become essentially estranged from each 
other. It was only in that brief bitter period, just 
at the beginning, that her coming had threatened 
to estrange them. It had been, quite unconsciously 
and innocently, her fault. But the winning of Peter 
had proved a very simple and easy proceeding, and 
now she was in.the enjoyment of a perfection of 
happiness to which both Jim and Peter, and in a 
stronger yet more mysterious degree little Tony, 
contributed. Her life seemed full, like a cup filled 
to the brim. It was almost overwhelming, this sense 
of complete happiness, of perfect content. It made 
her feel that she was receiving more than she could 
possibly give in return. Her love for Jim was 
steady, equable, sincere, but quite free from any 
unrest of emotion. He could not love her like that, 
and sometimes in his restless passionate soul she 
knew that he suffered. He wanted desperately that 
she should be satisfied with the things he could give 
her with such prodigal generosity. And this evening, 
if he could only have known it, she was satisfied. 
But if his boy were hereafter to demand of life some- 
thing that Jim was not prepared to give him, would 
there not be further suffering of an even more bitter 
kind? Into that anger and blame she too would be 
swept, as into a cruel and angry sea. 

She began to dread in every nerve that future in¬ 
evitable collision between father and son. It would 

be terrible, like the clashing of two fierce elemental 
forces. 

She had read the Credentials of the Catholic 


CARINA 


257 


Church, but then she had been brought up in the 
baith, and its substance was familiar to her; it could 
offer no surprise of novelty. She was perhaps a 
little astonished at the deep impression it had made 
upon^ Peter’s mind. It had been for him a sudden 
illumination, a swift unveiling of spiritual truth that 
had hitherto been hidden from him. She remem¬ 
bered his words, Like a blind man receiving sight . . . 
Something fierce, fiery and wholly incontrovertible 
had, for him, emanated from those simple, forceful 
pages of Catholic apologetic. Through his affec¬ 
tion for her, his mind was already attuned to receive 
its message. She had urged him to wait, but would 
he wait? He had all the impetuosity, the eagerness, 
the generous spirit of sacrifice, that are seldom so 
strong as in early youth. There was something of 
Jim’s indomitable obstinacy in Peter. It had been 
repressed, but not eliminated by the fear his father 
had deliberately inspired in him throughout his child¬ 
hood and boyhood. But the boy was rapidly grow¬ 
ing up, and something of manly independence char¬ 
acterized him. 

And Jim’s softened mood might deceive Peter— 
might lead him on to make confession of his inten¬ 
tion, believing that his father would accept it without 
remonstrance. . . . 

Now when she looked at their two faces side by 
side she felt a devouring fear of the future. Help 
had come to Peter quite apart from herself; she had 
loyally obeyed Jim in the matter of not speaking to 
him on the subject of religion. But it had come as 
it were from outside, and in the most natural manner 
possible. 

Jim said suddenly: “You’re looking tired, Carina. 
You’d better go in.” 

“Nurse must fetch Tony, then. Peter, go and 
tell her, please.” 


258 


CARINA 


The boy ran lightly into the house. They all went 
indoors. Just at that very moment when Carina had 
realized her happiness, this cold fear had descended 
upon her heart. She clung to Jim’s arm as they 
walked toward the house. 

It was almost a relief to her when Peter returned 
to. Eton at the end of the holidays without having 
said a word to his father on the subject. But she 
knew the day was only deferred. In her thought 
of him joy was so. closely knit together with pain and 
dread, that she did not dare dwell upon the strange 
happiness his determination had given her. It was 
an answer to all her prayers for him. . . . 



CHAPTER XXVII 


T HE two years that followed Tony’s birth, spent 
almost entirely at Linfold, were perhaps the 
happiest Carina Mallory had ever known. No 
other child had followed Tony, which was something 
of a disappointment to her, for she had wished very 
much for a son. What had constituted a disappoint¬ 
ment to her was, however, a recognized relief to 
Jim. He had always felt there would be difficulty 
in coping with a Catholic son, so he considered that 
things had turned out for the best. Carina was su¬ 
premely happy with her little girl, to whom she 
devoted a great part of her time. She refused to 
hand her over to the entire charge of a nurse, how¬ 
ever experienced. This decision was confirmed by 
Jim’s refusal to allow her to engage a Catholic nurse 
for Tony. He couldn’t, he declared, have that sort 
of thing let loose among the servants. Besides, Car¬ 
ina was there to teach her all that she ought to know. 
Mrs. Mallory accepted the decision with charact¬ 
eristic mildness. She had learnt never to dispute 
with Jim about non-essentials, but she registered a 
determination to keep the child with her as much as 
possible. She hung a crucifix and a medal of Our 
Lady above her crib, and placed a stoup of holy 
water in the nursery. Tony wore a little blessed 
gold medal round her neck. . The walls of her 
nursery were decorated with pictures of the Holy 
Family, and with some Medici prints of the more 
famous Madonnas of Raphael. There was a white 
marble statue of the Sacred Heart on the mantel- 


26 o 


CARINA 


piece. Carina tried to make the room resemble her 
own nursery, always so clearly remembered. A child 
seldom forgets its first pictures. Their subjects and 
color are among the first things to be inscribed upon 
its subconsciousness. Tony was thus to be familiar¬ 
ized with the thought of the Mother and Child from 
her earliest infancy, and as soon as she could speak 
at all, Carina began to teach her little simple prayers. 

Jim did not approve of the “Popish images,” but 
he did not, on the other hand, remonstrate. He was 
scrupulous about his promises, and then Carina had 
given way so readily about the nurse. Sophia had 
observed that the nursery was “idolatrous,” but Jim 
checked her grimly. It was all part of the incredibly 
bitter draught he had to swallow. It hurt him, just 
as setting forth alone on that weekly pilgrimage to 
the parish church, and sitting isolated and solitary 
in the front pew, never failed to hurt him. But it 
was the payment he had to make for the otherwise 
flawless happiness of his marriage. 

Long ago he had realized that Carina wasn’t 
another Iris, to be bullied and snubbed into submis¬ 
sion. Her spirit was free. And as long as she was 
a loyal and loving wife, supremely solicitous for his 
happiness and comfort, he knew he had no right 
to complain. 

After more than three years of married life he 
was more in love with Carina than he had ever been. 
They seemed closer to each other. Carina looked 
as young as ever, and was even more beautiful. A 
new portrait of her hung at Linfold, among the many 
family portraits dating from several hundreds of 
vears back, that were there. It was done by a famous 
French artist. She had her child on her knee, looselv 
held. Her clipped red-gold hair shone against a 
background of shimmering white and silver, verv 
cool in tone. She was dressed all in white, with 


CARINA 


261 


a touch of green, subdued but wonderful. Tony’s 
dark head nestled against the mother’s pale arm. 

When it was exhibited at the Academy, permis¬ 
sion for which had only been wrested from Jim with 
the utmost difficulty, some of the critics remembered 
that Mrs. Jim Mallory had been known to fame 
before her marriage as Carina Ramsden, the writer 
of beautiful and unusual books. Photographs of the 
portrait appeared in many of the illustrated dailies 
and weeklies. A publisher wrote offering her very 
advantageous terms for a new novel; the editor of 
a magazine invited her to contribute a serial. To 
feel that she was not yet forgotten in the world of 
authors touched and delighted Carina. But it was 
characteristic of her complete understanding with 
her husband, that she was able to show him both the 
letters. He laughed, however, in half-annoyed 
fashion. 

“How can they possibly think Mrs. Jim Mallory 
has time to scribble for them?” he inquired ironi¬ 
cally. 

“So many women far busier than I am, do find 
time,” replied Carina. 

“But you don’t want to write, do you, Car darl¬ 
ing?” 

“No, Jim. At least, I haven’t wanted to for a long 
time.” 

He was afraid that these flattering overtures 
would fan the flame of artistic craving in his wife. 
He knew she had this power, strong, fierce, latent, 
if artificially subdued and repressed. He could divine 
something of its almost irresistible driving force, 
when he remembered her as she had been in Corn¬ 
wall just before their marriage. So completely, 
cruelly oblivious of everything except the work m 
hand . . . He was still afraid that one day 

it would leap out and confront him in all its naked 


262 


CARINA 


elemental force. It wouldn’t be yet, perhaps, while 
Tony was so little and demanded so much of her 
mother’s time. He might have resented this tendency 
of Carina’s to be so absorbed in the baby, if he had 
not feared the temptation that might assail her to 
write in a life that held more leisure. Jim often 
secretly made small concessions. And Carina realiz¬ 
ing them was divinely tender to him. He told him¬ 
self over and over again that this rash and even im¬ 
prudent marriage had been abundantly justified in 
its results. 

Peter was nearly eighteen, and had been for some 
months at Woolwich. He had passed in very high, 
in an examination where marks ruled high, and he 
had kept his place by sheer hard work. He was 
perhaps less brilliant than some of his colleagues, 
but he was extraordinarily industrious. Carina’s 
influence was still so strong that he worked principal¬ 
ly to please her. Her recognition of his efforts, her 
approbation, were essential to him. And to return 
to Linfold and find her there, counted among the 
truest joys of his life. Tony, a precocious delicious 
creature of two, adored Peter, toddling about after 
him whenever she could, like a plump little worship¬ 
ing shadow. 

Peter was now extremely independent. He had 
his own motor-bicycle, with a side car for Carina 
whenever he could induce her to accompany him. He 
went in and out pretty much as he chose. Jim 
felt that the time to relax discipline had come. Peter 
was a man, and from all accounts was a trustworthy 
and capable one. Jim had great confidence in him, 
and now seldom questioned him. 

During the winter succeeding Tony’s second birth¬ 
day a change could be observed in Peter Mallory. 
He came back as usual for Christmas, but often ab¬ 
sented himself for whole days together. It became 


CARINA 


263 


more and more unusual for him to return home for 
luncheon, and on several occasions he was late for 
dinner. Jim apparently paid little attention to these 
manifestations of unpunctuality; he passed them over 
with only the mildest word of remonstrance. 

Sophia Mallory came to Linfold for the New 
Year, and her dissatisfaction with the state of affairs 
was speedily adumbrated. She watched Peter for a 
day or two. There was something mysterious about 
him, she decided. Perhaps he had embarked upon 
some secret love-affair. An unsuitable designing 
girl was trying to entrap the young heir of Lin¬ 
fold. . . . And Jim, immersed as usual in his 

wife, failed to suspect anything. But if Peter could 
count on parental blindness and preoccupation, he 
could not quiet the swiftly-a roused suspicions of his 
aunt. 

“Where on earth’s Peter?” she inquired one day 
at luncheon, when as usual he had failed to put in 
an appearance. 

“Peter? Why he’s gone in to Lintown, I suppose. 
Where else should he be?” said Jim. 

Nevertheless, Sophy’s words awakened a slight un¬ 
easiness in his mind. He looked across the table at 
his wife, who was engaged in feeding Tony with 
a spoon. Tony was lazy at meals and preferred to 
be fed. Sophia sometimes wondered why Jim per¬ 
mitted this indulgent attention. He ought to send 
her up to the nursery till she was old enough to be¬ 
have properly. It was high time he took Tony in 
hand. 

“Carina, do you know where Peter is?” Jim 
asked. 

She looked up and said, “No, Jim,” and then con¬ 
tinued to feed her child. In the little silence that 
followed, Jim’s uneasiness communicated itself to 

her. 


264 


CARINA 


“He went off soon after breakfast on his motor 
bike. I think the exercise is good for him when he 
can’t hunt,” she added presently. 

England was bound then in the blackest of black 
frosts. 

“Still, I think he ought to say where he’s going 
and when he means to come back,” said Sophia. 

Jim stirred restlessly. Yes, it was quite true. 
Peter now spent many hours of each day away from 
home. He hadn’t thought much about it, but 
Sophia’s words had suddenly created within him all 
sorts of hideous little misgivings and anxieties. He 
wondered if Carina shared them, whether she had 
observed anything. . . 

“Oh, Peter’s all right,” said Carina with smiling 
confidence. “Now, Tony darling, just one more 
spoonful and it’s done. Just one more.” She held 
the spoon to the small, resolutely-closed lips. 

She waited patiently, but Tony showed no signs 
of yielding. She possessed her full share of Mall¬ 
ory obstinacy. 

“If she doesn’t obey at once, she must go upstairs,” 
said Jim, in a voice that betrayed anger. 

“Come, Tony,” said Carina. 

Sophia’s manner made her nervous. She felt that 
she was tacitly encouraging Jim to assert his author¬ 
ity*. 

Jim was now thoroughly upset and anxious about 
Peter, and man-like his wrath began to vent itself 
upon the first object that annoyed him. He got up, 
seized the spoon from Carina’s hand, and said 
sharply: “Tony, if you don’t eat this at once I’ll 
take you upstairs myself 1” 

His loud voice terrified the child. She burst into 
tears, giving little sharp screams of terror. Carina 
quietly lifted her out of her high-chair, and took her 


CARINA 265 

on her knee. Across the smooth dark head cuddled 
against her she faced Jim quite calmly. 

“Please leave her alone, Jim. You only frighten 
her.” 

“My dear—you’re ruining her. If she doesn’t 
■ learn to obey now, she never will.” His eyes flashed. 
“I had to teach Peter to obey when he was that age. 
He had his first whipping when he was two!” 

“I won’t have Tony whipped,” said Carina calm¬ 
ly. Her eyes were almost frosty as they met Jim’s. 
“Please leave her to me. If she doesn’t stop crying 
I’ll take iher upstairs myself.” 

“I hate all this disturbance at meals. We never 
have a moment’s peace. The child wants a good 
strict nurse—.that girl is no use at all. I remember 
we couldn’t do anything with Peter till we got Park¬ 
inson.” 

Carina had always refused to hand Tony over to 
Parkinson though once or twice Jim had suggested 
it, and the old woman herself seemed to wish for it. 
She was too much of the old school, a strict dis¬ 
ciplinarian, and Carina did not wish to have her 
child’s spirit broken. She wanted to train her with¬ 
out violence. 

Jim went back to his seat, baffled and resentful. 
Sophia criticized in silence. She was able to compare 
his methods now with those he had been won't to 
use When Iris was alive. And she was also able to 
compare Carina’s calm firm attitude with Iris’s swift 
breaking into tears. Not thus would Iris Mallory 
have answered and acted. But it was just as Sophia 
had told Lady Chi Item long ago—Carina had be¬ 
witched Jim. His will had deteriorated. He couldn’t 
call his soul his own. He wasn’t even master in his 
own house. He was a shorn Samson! . . . 

Tony’s sobs subsided. The plate was removed 
with the last spoonful still uneaten. In the midst of 



266 


CARINA 


the silence that followed this brief tempest, Peter, 
the primary but innocent cause of it aJl, came into 
the room. 

With his easy, nonchalant air he advanced toward 
the table, when Jim burst out with: 

“Where have you been to all the morning? We’ve 
nearly finished lunch! You’re using this house just 
like an hotel and I tell you, I won’t stand it. You’re 
up to some mischief, I’ll be bound!” 

Peter turned rather pale. He sat down near Tony 
and opposite to Sophia, who eyed him with a look 
of malignant triumph. What did his father mean by 
this sudden ebullition of anger? Something must 
have upset him. He glanced at Carina, and then 
at Tony, whose infant face was still distorted with 
weeping. 

“I don’t understand, Dad. I didn’t mean to be 
late. But I got kept in—in Lintown.” 

# Sophia glanced at Jim as much as to say: “There, 
didn’t I tell you. You and Carina are ruining that 
boy between you.” 

“Well, r m not going to have any more of it, and 
so I tell you,” said Jim. “You’re to come to my 
study directly after lundh, and I shall insist upon 
your telling me exactly where you’ve been spending 
so much of your time lately. You’re not your own 
master yet, as you’ll jolly soon find out!” 

Jim’s brows met in a straight formidable black line 
across his face. Peter had not seen his father so 
-angry for years. 

“Very well, Dad,” he said, in a subdued tone. 

He was obviously nervous, and yet Carina felt 
she could discern a kind of sick relief in his young 
face. No hint of the truth had reached her. She was 
as ignorant of the real explanation as Jim or Sophia. 
It had not occurred to her to attach any particular 
significance to Peter’s prolonged absences; the boy 


CARINA 


267 

needed fresh air and exercise, there was little to 
amuse him at Unfold in the depths of winter, and 
his motor-bicycle was still rather a new toy to him. 
He enjoyed the liberty and independence it gave him. 
But on reflection she saw that he had not been very 
confidential to her since his return home this time. 
He had not once come up to seek her alone in her 
sitting-room, and have a quiet talk wben Jim was 
out. But she had unlimited confidence in Peter, as 
well as unlimited faith in him. She trusted him 
completely, despite these novel reserves and with¬ 
drawals. She believed, too, that if there had been 
anything amiss he would have told her. The thought 
of the impending interview between father and son 
disturbed her not a little. Jim in this mood of jealous 
suspicion was dangerous. He was hard, abrupt, 
violent, and a young man of Peter’s years required 
wise and delicate handling. She wished Jim could 
have relegated the task of questioning ‘him to her. 

She was not afraid that her husband would be 
actually violent with his son, but she did fear that 
in his anger he would say things to wound and af¬ 
front Peter, to estrange him when he ought to have 
tried to draw hirn closer in the bonds of a wise, lov¬ 
ing, understanding authority. 

The peal proceeded, more or less in silence, to its 
conclusion of coffee and cigarettes. Peter declined 
to smoke. He sat there, composed as a statue, and 
with something of a statue’s mysterious immobility. 
His eyes never glanced in Carina’s direction. Once 
he stretched out his hand and caressed little Tony, 
stroking back her hair, so like his own in its sleek 
silken blackness. Sophia kept up a desultory duo¬ 
logue of dismal platitudes with her brother. She had 
accomplished the graceless task she had set out to 
do; she couldn’t endure to see poor dear Jim so 
hoodwinked by his wife and son. Thanks to her, he 


268 


CARINA 


was on the alert now, his suspicions were thoroughly 
aroused. . . . 

Carina felt that the little group at table had sud 
denly divided itself into two belligerent parties. On 
the one side the protagonists were represented by Jim 
and Sophia, while on the other she herself was 
grouped with Peter and Tony. She was conscious 
of a fierce wish to support and encourage Peter. Jim 
was not wise with his children. He wanted to take 
the short cut to submission by means of violence. 
He was impatient and imprudent in his anger. 

Jim was obscurely aware of Carina’s antagonism. 
It increased his ill-humor. Well, even if he had to 
look on and let her ruin her own child with criminal 
indulgence, he wasn’t going to be humbugged by 
Peter. He meant to discover what the boy was up 
to. At first he had been annoyed with Sophia for 
suggesting that anything was amiss. But now he felt 
a kind of uneasy gratitude toward her. She was 
rough and tactless, but she could and did unerringly 
hit the right nail on the head. Her eye was clear, 
and her hand steady. Those were Mallory traits 
which he could appreciate. 

Luncheon was finished. Carina rose and lifted 
Tony from her chair, and led her toward the door. 
She smiled at Jim and Peter, and then went out of 
the room, followed by Sophia. Very soon she heard 
Jim go across to his study and slam the door. He 
and Peter were together. . . . 

Feeling nervous and anxious, Carina took Tony 
upstairs. At the top of the stairs there was one of 
Iris’s innumerable portraits, and as she passed it she 
happened to glance at. it. She had so often passed 
it, unobservant and indifferent. It was badly painted, 
and she wondered why Jim left it there in that rather 
conspicuous position. But to-day it seemed to her 
that Tris was actually looking at her with a pleading, 


CARINA 


269 


wistful appeal. Pleading perhaps for her son. . . . 

Carina stopped in front of it and murmured: “Oh, 
IVe done my best for him—you know that, don’t 
you? I’ve loved your boy—” 

She had a curious superstitious feeling that Iris 
was in some way satisfied with this response. . . 

Carina’s bedroom was just above the study. She 
put Tony into her cot and then went to the window, 
softly opening it. But she could hear no sound of 
voices from below. The study window was shut. 

She longed then to know what was passing between 
father and son. . . 

The Park was wrapped in its wintry beauty, of 
pale foreground and delicate distances. A slight 
fall of snow that had taken place a day or two be¬ 
fore, still whitened the spreading fields to silver, and 
against it the brown and purple lace of the trees 
was softly etched. The high pale sky was almost 
cloudless, and the wintry sunshine—the first there 
had been for days—flowed over the scene like a frail 
golden illumination, though insufficient to melt that 
ice-prisoned world. It was one of the first days of 
January, and there was no least hint of spring in the 
sharp biting air, only perhaps the menace of a pro¬ 
longed and severe winter. Beyond the terrace and 
the spreading, undulating park, Carina saw a misty 
glimpse of the sea, pale, impalpable, almost at one 
with the sky. 

She could appreciate the beauty of the scene, but 
it was of a severe, austere kind, that awed even while 
it attracted. 

Linfold held her. Now for three years it had 
been her home. She had hardly ever left it for more 
than a few days at a time. She had learnt to love 
it and all that it had given her. She felt grateful 
to Jim because he had showered so many and such 
precious gifts upon her. She blamed herself now 


270 


CARINA 


for having had those secret, bitter, hostile little 
thoughts of him, because of his anger with Peter. 
She told herself that she ought always to remember 
how good he had been to her, how kind, how su¬ 
premely faithful. And in return she must learn to 
love him more, to consider him more, to excuse him 
when necessary. . . . 

Tony had fallen asleep in her cot. The whole 
house seemed to be permeated with a deep and un¬ 
natural silence. She longed for someone to come 
up and speak to her. She wanted Jim. . . . 


CHAPTER XXVIII 


ARINA was still sitting there deep in thought 



when Jim came into the room. By a glance at 
his face she saw that his anger had completely sub¬ 
sided. A hope that Peter had been able to account 
for his movements in a manner that was perfectly 
satisfactory to his father, rose in her heart. 

She went toward him, with a glance at the crib 
as if to remind him that Tony was asleep. 

“Carina,” he said. 

“Yes, Jim?” 

“I don’t know what’s come over Peter. But he 
won’t tell me anything. I feel that he’s hiding some¬ 
thing from me, although he assures me there’s noth¬ 
ing wrong. So I’ve come to you . . . You’ve 

always been in his confidence, I know.” 

“I’m not at all in his confidence just now. What¬ 
ever it is, he has told me nothing. I’ve been a little 
anxious too. But I’m so sure of Peter.” 

“Yes, and so am I. But this absenting himself, 
day after day!” His brow was puckered in a frown. 
“He’s been seen in Lintown several times, and he’s 
got a Woolwich friend there. But I don’t feel as 
if I could go and ask those people—strangers to me 
—how much of his time he spends with them.” 

“No, of course you couldn’t do that, Jim.” 

“But I can’t have this going on either. Peter’s 
always been straight and above-board. He won’t 
be going back to Woolwich for some weeks. What 
do you say to a trip abroad? That’ll take him away 
from whatever it is. I’m only sorry you don’t know 

271 


272 


CARINA 


more, Carina—I made certain you’d be able to throw 
some light on the subject.” 

“I wish I could. But this idea of going 
abroad. . . . You’d take him yourself, Jim?’ 

“Oh, we must all go, Carina. I couldn’t face it 
without you.” 

“But of course I’ll come. I only thought you might 
want to be alone with 'him—without any tiresome 
woman. I’m always glad to get out of England in 
the winter.” 

Her eager acquiescence in the plan mollified him. 
It was almost as if they were discussing the question 
of her own son, so absolutely did she enter into his 
fears and anxieties. 

“Oh, you mustn’t be anxious,” she continued; 
“Peter’s a dear boy ... I feel in my heart it’s 
all right—your son and Iris’s. . . .” 

“Iris’s,” he repeated, as if the word had become 
strange and unfamiliar to him. But it awoke a hun¬ 
dred trivial, poignant, almost unbearable memories 
within him. He drew Carina to him and kissed her. 

“When shall we go, Jim?” 

“As soon as we can get off. It’ll spring a surprise 
on young Peter—we shall see how he takes to the 
idea!” 

“And where do you want to go?” 

“Oh, you know foreign places so much better than 
I do. Something that will interest and amuse him. 
Rome .. . . would you care to go to Rome?” 

“Oh, Jim, of course I should! And it would interest 
Peter—the ruins and monuments. And you liked 
it, didn’t you? I’ve often wanted to go back.” 

“Yes—Rome isn’t half a bad idea.” 

“And ... Jim . . .” 

“Yes, Car, darling?” 

“Don’t let Peter know why we’re going. Don’t 
show that you suspect anything. YouVe been won- 


CARINA 


*13 


derftflly patient and good with him. It’s so much 
wiser than making him afraid.” 

He said gravely: “I believe you’re right, Carina. 
I was very angry at first—but afterward I felt that 
it was only making him more silent and reserved. 
All he would say was that there was nothing wrong, 
and that some day I should know.” 

They stood side by side, looking out at the fragile, 
delicate beauty of the winter landscape. 

“It’s a wrendh to go,” said Jim, slowly. “You 
know, I’m never happy away from Linfold.” 

“I know you’re not. Still, we must try to help 
Peter. I do feel it’s all right, though. I do think 
that if he were in any perplexity he’d tell me. In 
the meantime you mustn’t be hard on him.” 

“How you do spoil them both—Peter and Tony,” 
he said. 

“I want them to love me,” she said simply. “I 
know what it means to a child to be very happy.” 

Jim felt appeased and quieted. The thought of 
a journey to Rome began to acquire a certain attrac¬ 
tion for him. And the sunshine would do Carina 
good—she was looking much too pale. She felt the 
cold winter days very much; she seemed almost to 
droop under their austere influence. They discussed 
plans a little longer, and then Jim went back to his 
study to write some telegrams. He felt there was 
no time to be lost, so he proceeded to book rooms 
and order tickets and sleeping berths, thankful to 
have this occupation to distract his thoughts from 
his son. He had arranged everything before he 
went into the drawing-room at tea-time. Peter came 
in almost at once, and seemed relieved to find that 
there was a truce. His young face cleared. He had 
resented the heated cross-examination to which his 
father had subjected him after luncheon, and though 
Jim had been much more temperate than usual, he 


274 


CARINA 


had not expected the atmosphere to become so quick¬ 
ly serene. It was Carina’s doing, of course—she 
knew exactly how to manage his father. She was 
too wonderful for words. Life at Linfold would 
be impossible without her. 

Peter as he grew up had lost something of his 
respectful admiration for his father; he had become 
inclined to criticize sharply the lack of self-control, 
the disposition to lose his temper on the slightest 
provocation, so constantly displayed. Peter even 
stigmatized it as “bad form,” and wondered that 
his father should have reached the age of forty-four 
without having learned adequate self-control. His 
own cool temperament resented those violent out¬ 
bursts, and had he dared he would have shown 
something of the contempt he felt for them. 

Carina gave him a cup of tea, and then said: 

“We’ve come to the conclusion it’s too cold for 
words here this winter, so we’re planning a trip to 
Rome.” 

“Are you?” said Peter. He glanced curiously 
from his father to his stepmother. 

“Carina wants a change,” said Mallory. 

“Shall we all go?” asked Peter. 

“Yes, of course. Do you think I’d go without 
you and Tony?” Carina smiled. 

“How simply topping!” said Peter, as if he didn’t 
quite believe it. “I’ve never been to Italy, and I’ve 
wanted to see Rome most awfully. Next year we 
might go to Switzerland.” His eyes shone. 

Jim’s face cleared. Carina was right—she always 
was. And if he had been less harsh and peremptory 
with Peter that day, he might by now have been in 
possession of a perfectly plausible, innocent expla¬ 
nation of his son’s frequent absences. 

“You might look up some Italian before you go,” 
said Jim. 


CARINA 


275 


“PU give you lessons,’' suggested Carina. 

“Will you really? I’d love to learn! I did pretty 
well in French last term.” 

The boy was genuinely delighted at the prospect 
of the journey. He had not been abroad since their 
trip to Norway, the year his father and Carina were 
married. It was a ripping idea to go just now, when 
there was no prospect of hunting or golf. 

Mallory was at once puzzled and quieted by 
Peter’s joyous reception of the plan. He drank his 
tea, and then left the room, saying he still had some 
writing to do. Peter was left alone with his step¬ 
mother, for Sophia was spending the afternoon at 
the rectory, where she had been informing Mr. 
Humphreys gravely that “Jim’s boy was quite out 
of hand. His stepmother spoilt him, and his father 
could do nothing with him. Between them, they 
were laying up endless trouble for themselves and 
Peter.” 

Mr. Humphreys shook his head, and then said Jim 
was certainly a changed man since his second mar¬ 
riage. It was a pity, a great pity, but there it was, 
and it couldn’t be helped. He hoped sincerely he 
wouldn’t yet live to regret it in sackcloth and ashes. 
“Sackcloth and ashes, my dear Miss Mallory!” he 
repeated, with dramatic emphasis. 

“Now we can talk,” said Peter, drawing up his 
chair to the fire. “I’m simply dying to know, Car¬ 
ina, if this idea of going to Rome was yours or 
Dad’s.” 

“It was entirely your father’s. I should never 
have suggested it. You know that as a rule he hates 
leaving Linfold.” 

“Do you know, I’m glad it came from him?” said 
the boy, earnestly. 

She felt then that while he half feared she might 


CARINA 


276 

now ask him for an explanation of his conduct, he 
yet faintly wished that she would do so. 

Carina looked at him steadily. 

“Are you? Why?” she said. 

“Because if he suggested it, he can’t blame any¬ 
one.” 

“Blame?” She lifted her brows. The boy’s man¬ 
ner was ambiguous. “But why should anyone be 
blamed?” 

“Well, it depends of course on how things turn 
out!” 

She thought the time had come to speak plainly. 

“Peter,” she said, “I don’t know in the least what 
you mean—you’ve given me no clue. But I want to 
beg you to be very careful not to displease your 
father. I think you must have seen that he wasn’t 
quite happy about you—” 

“That’s a nice way of describing a towering rage 1” 
put in Peter, laughing. 

“Yes, but it was your fault. You’ve shown a want 
of frankness, to me as well as to Jim. It makes us 
both anxious. That isn’t right, you know.” Her 
voice was very gentle, and as she spoke she laid her 
hand lightly on Peter’s hard brown one. 

Peter slipped his arm round her neck. “Carina,” 
he whispered. 

She disengaged herself gently. “Yes, dear?” 

“You know I’d tell you if I could. But I don’t 
want to. It’s better not. Only, you mustn’t think 
there’s anything wrong. I think if there were any¬ 
thing wrong I’d tell you first—I should want to tell 
you. You’ve been such a friend to me—such a real 
pal, Carina!” 

His voice actually trembled a little. 

“It’s very nice of you to say that, Peter. But I 
can never take your father’s place. He has the first 


CARINA 


277 


claim on your confidence and love.” Her tone was 
slightly stern. 

Of course I know that. But I can’t give him 
what I give you!” 

“I’d rather you didn’t say that to me, Peter.” 

He smiled at her. “You are wonderful,” he as¬ 
sured her. 

I m glad, though, that you like the thought of 
coming with us to Rome.” 

“I simply can’t tell you how much. I’ve longed— 
yes, even prayed —to go there!” 

Those words gave Carina her first faint due to 
what was passing in Peter’s mind. They seemed to 
illuminate the situation which before had seemed 
both obscure and ambiguous. A very real misgiving 
crept 'into her heart. For more than two years Peter 
had never mentioned the subject of religion to her. 
After that one talk he 'had not again referred to it, 
and as the time passed on, Carina had believed that 
with him that particular phase had disappeared. 
Much 'had happened during those two years. He 
had left Eton and gone to Woolwich, and a new 
world of interests, work, and amusements had come 
into his life. And he loved it all ardently, the work, 
the games, the many activities that had sprung up 
in his path as he grew from boy to man. When at 
home he had accompanied his father to church reg¬ 
ularly and without demur. She thought that perhaps 
these fresh contacts with the world had ousted those 
ancient spiritual cravings. 

Even now it was only the least hint, but it made 
her very anxious. She could understand that his 
delicate consideration for herself prevented him from 
confiding fully in her. Her heart sank a little. It 
wasn’t, She told herself, that she didn’t wish to see 
Peter a Catholic, for she was conscious of desiring 
this grace for him with all her heart; but she knew 


278 


CARINA 


that he would have to pass through troubled stormy 
waters to reach that haven, and she feared lest his 
ardor should fail in the face of those inevitable 
obstacles. 

Jim came back and found them sitting together 
over the fire. 

“I suppose it’ll do if you take Jackson. You won’t 
want the girl as well to look after Tony?” he said. 

“No—Jackson can look after her and me too. 
She’ll be only too delighted to come on any condi¬ 
tion.” Her voice held that gay easy decision which 
invariably convinced Jim. 

“Shall you be ready by Monday? That gives us 
three days. We could leave by the early train for 
Newhaven, and go by that route.” 

“Very well, Jim.” 

“Peter, you must tell Parkinson to see that your 
things are in order. And if you want anything, you’d 
better get it in Lintown to-morrow.” 

“Very well, Dad.” 

Peter had moved across to the sofa, away from 
the fire, yielding his seat to his father. He now 
watched them as they discussed the arrangements. 
He secretly admired the way Carina managed his 
father. No one in his own experience had ever done 
it so cleverly, so skilfully. And knowing his father’s 
character, its despotism, its fierce obstinacy, its vio¬ 
lent, jealous, implacable moods, he realized how 
wonderfully she had in a certain sense subdued him. 
Less frequent than ever were Mallory’s 'outbursts 
of uncontrollable rage. It was almost as if he had 
learned to be ashamed of them . . . Carina 

looked like a slip of a girl beside him, and no one 
glancing at her casually would have suspected her of 
possessing -that fine, indomitable, fearless spirit, ar¬ 
dent and flame-like. . . . 

With her on his side, so ran Peter’s thoughts, 


CARINA 


279 


surely things would ultimately pan out all right. And 
she was. on his side—she had to be. 

He slipped out of the room, leaving them together. 
He felt that if he remained with them, lie should 
make premature confession of all that was in his 
heart, trusting to Carina’s sweet influence to see him 
safely through the ordeal. 

“Peter likes the idea of going to Rome,” said 
Carina to Jim when they were alone. 

He pulled her nearer to him, and she leaned 
against him as if she were tired. 

“You were right,” he said; “if there’d been any¬ 
thing wrong he wouldn’t have been so eager to go 
away. As it is, the prospect delights him. I sup¬ 
pose soime day he’ll tell us all about it,” he added 
wistfully. 

“I’m sure he will, Jim.” Her voice was cool and 
steady. 

“You haven’t asked him what was 'the matter?” 

“Oh, no. I don’t wish to force his confidence.” 

“Carina, once I used to feel that you might become 
a barrier between Peter and myself. He took such 
an enormous fancy to you when you first came, that 
I felt my own hold over him was weakening. But 
now you’re like a link drawing us closer together— 
preventing our misunderstanding and mistrusting 
each other.” 

Carina said very softly: “You see, you’re both so 
dear to me.” 

“Is that true? Do you really mean it? You’ve 
been happy with us?” 

She laughed. “Of course I mean it. You’ve given 
me such solid happiness, Jim.” 

“But I’m such a rough brute. You must feel 
that . . .” 

“I feel nothing of the kind!” She was smiling, 
but there was a dewy tenderness in her eyes. She 


280 


CARINA 


was thinking: “If this does separate them, I must 
bring them together again.” 

He looked at her almost incredulously. He could 
never quite give up the idea that she still regretted 
that frustrated fame. She had accepted everything 
so joyously, but surely in her heart the old ambition 
could not be quite quenched. Yet perhaps his own 
theory was true—that women were always happiest 
in a purely domestic life with their children about 
them. Even the most brilliant and gifted ones would 
choose just those joys, careless of other prizes. 

“I’m glad you’ve been happy,” he said slowly. 
“I’ve often been afraid of your regretting your 
former life, with all its intellectual interests.” 

“It wasn’t any use regretting,” she said quietly; 
“you showed me so plainly you didn’t like it. I re¬ 
belled a little at first—was I very horrid, Jim? But 
I saw afterward that you were right. Children when 
they come, claim so much of their mother’s time. It’s 
only right they should. I’m not unreasonable, Jim.” 

She spoke with a swift decision. It had not been 
very easy for her at first, but afterward she had ac¬ 
cepted deliberately those new duties imposed by 
changed conditions. And then he realized that al¬ 
ways she was actuated and controlled by a strong 
spiritual force that was her ultimate guide in all 
matters. . She wasn’t really ruled by him, even when 
she submitted to his decisions. She was governed by 
something at once more austere, and more insistent 
in its demands upon her will. He loved her all the 
better for that. She wasn’t a woman you could 
break to pieces—like Iris, for instance. She would 
always keep the fair, large freedom that was her 
spiritual birthright and heritage. 

She had brought ideals to bear in that new life of 
hers. Her child played a very important part in her 
life. Carina was a very maternal woman, and she 


CARINA 


281 


had a natural love of and understanding for little 
children. Her beauty still held Jim in his first bond¬ 
age, but her development had been a delicious thing 
to watch. . Even the slow, steady development of her 
love for him that increased year by year. To-night 
she hadn’t tried to hide it. It was as if she wanted 
to draw him nearer, much nearer. 

They sat there, still, and absorbed in thought, their 
hands interlocked and Carina’s 'head pressed lightly 
against his arm. To her it was a wonderful hour 
when without words it seemed almost as if the veils 
between their souls had been torn down, and that they 
had seen and known eadi other for the first time. 
They were conscious of happiness, of mutual forbear¬ 
ance and understanding. Their lives had become 
deeply and closely interwoven. 

And yet, she couldn’t have adjusted herself to those 
new conditions, he thought, without considerable ef¬ 
fort and self-discipline. But she had in the end ad¬ 
justed herself very completely. And he had given 
way in what she considered essentials. There were 
fundamental things about Carina which you had to 
realize you couldn’t touch. Things that had gone so 
marvellously to the forming of her. That religion 
of hers for instance, it was part of her very being. 
Yes, they had both made sacrifices, and in reward 
they had attained to their present harmony. 

When at last ^he spoke, she said: “Jim, I hope 
you’ll never be hard on Peter. Sons seldom keep 
quite to the lines laid down by their fathers. There 
must be change and progress in each generation. 
Peter’s a child of the twentieth century with all its 
storm and stress and heroism. But you’ve got a son 
to be proud of. . . .” 

“You’ve done more for him than I ever could. I 
sometimes think he almost forgets you’re not his own 
mother. You’ve done so much for us all, Carina.” 


282 


CARINA 


She did not speak. His words were less sentiment¬ 
al than passionately sincere. A little praise from 
him meant so much. He had observed perhaps her 
efforts; he had watched her at work, silently, self- 
sacrificingly, for them all. Himself, Peter and 
Tony. . . . 

“But that’s what I wanted to do,” she assured 
him. 

Jim turned his face to her. “Oh, my darling, I 
love you,” he said. 

She always remembered that talk in after days. 
His kisses before he would let her go . His 

reiterated “My darling, I love you.” She had never 
felt so certain as she did then of his love and ap¬ 
proval; his recognition of the part she had played. 
It had been hard at first—that part—so hard that it 
had stirred her to a fierce interior rebellion that 
almost overcame her. Then becoming easier 
and then a thing of unimaginable joys, when life 
seemed filled to the brim. As now ... as 
now. . . . 


CHAPTER XXIX 


T HE day for their departure broke grey and wet. 

Clouds drooped over the Sussex Downs, and 
evaporated into a pale mist. The sodden green 
meadows from whidh every particle of snow had 
vanished were traversed with the brown irregular 
lines of jagged hedgerows that cut them abruptly. 
In the garden a few early snowdrops, spoilt by the 
rain, hung down their heavy opaque heads. It was 
a melancholy day, without the crisp definite cold of 
winter, and with as yet no hint of advancing spring. 

Nevertheless, despite the weather and inclement 
conditions, Carina felt an odd pang at leaving the 
old house perhaps for many weeks to come. She felt 
for the first time nervous about the future, as if the 
journey might prove to be a fateful one, and that 
when they returned home they might (find some 
subtle change in the place or in each other, to pre¬ 
vent them from enjoying that complete happiness 
whidh of late had been abundantly theirs. Except 
indeed for that slight passage of arms between Jim 
and Peter, there had been nothing for a long time 
to cloud their harmonious content. 

She tried to shake herself free from this mood 
which seemed to her morbid, but it was not quite 
easy to do so. It took possession of her, and in the 
journey across France it prevented her from sleep¬ 
ing, so that by the time they reached Rome she was 
a wreck, worn out and nervous from sheer fatigue. 

“Why, I thought you were such a splendid trav¬ 
eller, Car darling,” said Jim. 

283 


284 


CARINA 


“So I used to be,” she answered with a wan smile. 
“I don’t know what’s come over me.” 

She couldn’t possibly tell Jim of those morbid im¬ 
aginings and apprehensions that 'had seized her just 
as they were on the point of leaving Lin fold, and 
which had been so strong that she had almost en¬ 
treated him on her knees to relinquish the proposed 
trip. He would have laughed at her, and perhaps, 
too, he would have shown annoyance, for he dis¬ 
liked any manifestation of nerves or hysteria. He 
and Peter had both looked as joyous as if they were 
setting forth upon some romantic adventure. It was 
odd that their happiness hadn’t in the least communi¬ 
cated itself to her. She could only feel this desper¬ 
ate longing not to leave Linfold, despite its melan¬ 
choly aspect, the chill of the falling rain, of the drift¬ 
ing clouds. 

But when once she had recovered from her fatigue, 
the old joy of being in Rome took possession of her. 
Jim and Peter were obviously very happy indeed; 
their suite of rooms at one of the big hotels was com¬ 
fortable and sunny, the flowers with which she daily 
filled the vases, giving it almost an aspect of sum¬ 
mer. Tony seemed to thrive. 

The sojourn in Rome passed very smoothly in 
those first days. So smoothly that English people 
staying in the same hotel could not help observing 
and speculating upon the gay, mutually devoted little 
party who at meals occupied a table near the window 
of the restaurant. At first it was a little difficult 
for strangers to place them; the man was obviously 
so much older than his companions. Yet they de¬ 
cided that the girlish looking woman with the wonder¬ 
ful red-gold hair clipped short to her neck, must 
certainly be his wife, despite the difference in their 
ages. He was so evidently en adoration , and be¬ 
sides she wore a wedding ring, and was obviously the 


CARINA 


285 


mother of the beautiful little girl who hardly ever 
left her side. Then, on the other hand, it was mani¬ 
festly impossible for her to be the mother of that tall 
young stripling who possessed such a marked re¬ 
semblance to the elder man. Their names in the 
visitors’ book were Mr. and Mrs. James Mallory, 
Mr. Peter Mallory, Miss Antonia Mallory and maid, 
of Linfold Park, Sussex. There were some people 
from that county staying in the hotel, and they 
threw a vague light on the subject by saying: “Jim 
Mallory of Linfold? Oh, yes, one knows the name 
quite well. I heard he’d married again—that tall 
boy must be the son of his first wife. He took every¬ 
one by surprise by marrying Carina Ramsden. But 
she’s quite given up writing since her marriage.” 

Jim was aware of the attention bestowed upon his 
wife, the glances of admiration that her beauty 
evoked, and on the whole he was not displeased. 

Carina knew Rome superficially by heart, but the 
deeper and more complicated archaeological problems 
of that vast palimpsest were matters she had never 
had time to study. She was, however, a good guide, 
and Jim and Peter were never happy unless she ac¬ 
companied them on their orgies of sightseeing. Jack- 
son could surely be trusted to take Tony on the 
Pi nc io—Tony must really learn not to cry for her 
mother ... a great girl of two and a half! 
Thus Jim, but Carina was less satisfied with the ar¬ 
rangement to which she found herself bound to sub¬ 
mit. She had an uncomfortable trick of carrying 
with her that thin, childish wail, and its ghostly little 
echo haunted her while she dutifully went through 
the ruins of the Forum or climbed the steep path to 
the top of the Palatine Hill. 

Very soon a discomfiting fact was impressed upon 
her consciousness. While Jim’s passionate interest 
was wholly devoted to the gigantic ruins of bygone 


286 


CARINA 


Rome, the palaces of the Palatine, the temples of 
the Forum, 'the massive tombs of the Appian Way, 
the vast tragic splendor of the Colosseum, Peter’s 
supreme enjoyment lay in visiting the great basilicas, 
the monuments of Christian Rome, and the churches, 
so many of them built in the very early days of 
Christianity, and still cherishing their traditions of 
the sojourns 'there of St. Peter and St. Paul. He was 
deeply interested too in that period of strangely 
intensified' spiritual life known as the Counter- 
Reformation, when so many new churches had been 
built, and so many ancient ones lovingly restored and 
decorated. 

He kept his enthusiasm within bounds and said 
very little about it. He accompanied his father on 
purely archaeological expeditions without demur, but 
if he ever had to choose a place for the morning’s 
visit, it was always a basilica or a church that he sug¬ 
gested. 

The fact apparently escaped Jim’s notice, but not 
so Carina’s. It gave her food both for hope and 
fear. But she. watched Peter, and saw him sinking 
almost insensibly into the open arms of the 
Church. . . . 

Carina was delighted to find herself able once more 
to go to daily Mass. She rose early and went every 
morning at seven o’clock to the great church of Sant’ 
Andrea delle Fratte, with its wonderful cloister and 
garden of -orange trees. Carina loved that quiet 
hour, spent before the Blessed Sacrament, in the spot 
where 'the miraculous conversion of -the Jew, Ratis- 
bonne, had taken place nearly eighty years before. 
He had gone thither in scoffing mood, when sud¬ 
denly as he stood there, he saw amid long rays of 
mystical light the luminous figure of Our Lady beck¬ 
oning to him. Beyond in the choir was the great 
picture of the martyrdom of St. Andrew, while on 


CARINA 


287 

each side oi the sanctuary Bernini’s smiling, joyful 
angels still gazed down upon successive generations 
of worshipers. 

One morning as she was kneeling there, at the com¬ 
mencement of Mass, Carina saw a door at the side 
of the church open and Peter’s young figure appeared 
on the threshold. He did not see her, and she 
watched him with something of anguish in her eyes 
as he dipped his finger into a stoup of holy water and 
crossed himself. He genuflected toward the altar, 
before he knelt down at some little distance from her. 
He performed these actions with the easy grace that 
tells of long custom. He knelt there, his face hid¬ 
den in his hands; she could just see the back of his 
sleek black head. . . . 

Carina could hardly think of her own prayers that 
morning. Her thoughts were full of Peter, and the 
prayers which she was at last able to say were all 
for him. For a long time he had hardly mentioned 
the subject of religion to her, and until that night 
when he had spoken of his earnest desire to go to 
Rome, she had believed that his interest in the sub¬ 
ject had weakened a little. She knew that he had 
been working very hard, and that he was also pro¬ 
ficient at many games which naturally occupied much 
of his time, so that perhaps he had had less leisure 
in which to reflect upon the deeper things of the 
soul. Carina had felt too the reserve, almost im¬ 
perceptible at first, yet very real, which had charac¬ 
terized his attitude toward herself during the past 
year. He had seldom come to her in the old way, 
sitting at her feet, laying his head on her knee, speak¬ 
ing to her with eager frankness and confidence. But 
she had been inclined to think this was merely one 
of the results of his transition from boyhood to man¬ 
hood. For there was not—there never had been— 
any diminution of his affection for her, his immense 


28$ 


CARINA 


desire to please her. She knew that even now, if 
she invited him to explain what had of late seemed 
so mystifying and ambiguous in his conduct, he would 
have told her everything without reserve. But she 
had been afraid to come too close to that secret of 
his heart. She had been afraid of hearing something 
that Jim might not know. She was conscious of a 
subtly divided loyalty when she considered, dispas¬ 
sionately and impartially, the relations of father and 
son. It was not that they were not good friends. 
As Peter had grown to manhood he and Jim had 
enjoyed a certain comradeship, and here in Rome it 
had been especially noticeable. During Peter’s 
childhood Jim had been too stern a father to enjoy 
his son’s full confidence; the boy had been nervous 
of evoking unwittingly that violent and uncurbed 
anger. But^ then, Carina had herself long since 
learned the inadvisability of discussing certain mat¬ 
ters with Jim. Her religion, for instance—that was 
a subject that must be kept out of sight, and men¬ 
tioned as seldom as possible. . . . 

This thought came into her mind now as her eyes 
rested wistfully upon the sleek black head in front of 
her. 

Peter held a book open before him. He was evi¬ 
dently following the Mass with the closest attention. 
At the Gospel he sprang up and crossed himself on 
brow and lips and breast. At the Sanctus he knelt 
down and at the Elevation, after one glance upward, 
he bent his head, remaining thus for a long time in 
an attitude of profound devotion. Somehow—some¬ 
where—die had learned the Mysteries of the Catholic 
Faith. He could follow with perfect ease the won- 
derfuUiturgical prayers, the petitions, the actions of 
the priest, the Holy Sacrifice. . . . 

All of a sudden she remembered his words, spoken 


CARINA 289 

to her that night when the decision to come abroad 
had been made. 

“I’d tell you if I could . . . But I don’t want 
to. It’s better not. Only, you musn’t think there’s 
anything wrong. . . .” 

So it had been this then, all the time. She had 
had her suspicions that night, but they had hardly 
taken tangible form. Carina felt almost frightened. 
What would Jim say when he came to know? Would 
he blame her? The fear choked back the rising 
hope that had sprung into life. She realized that 
she was no longer so afraid of Jim’s anger as she 
was of forfeiting his love. His love that was now 
so infinitely precious, that had come to dominate her 
life in a curious, unexpected fashion. Her eyes 
filled with scalding tears. 

When she went up to the altar-rails to receive Holy 
Communion, she passed Peter without making any 
sign that she had seen him. Directly Mass was over, 
he hurried out of the church. She was still un¬ 
certain as to whether he had seen her or not. 

She went back to the hotel that morning, her 
thoughts in a whirl. It was a bleak day in January, 
and Rome lay grey under a grey sky. The city looked 
austere and melancholy, as if troubled with its an¬ 
cient, tragic secrets. To prolong her walk a little, 
for she felt a curious dislike to encountering Jim 
that morning, she went round by the Spanish steps. 
Already the flower-sellers were arranging their stalls. 
Even on the dullest of winter days those jewel-like 
masses gave an impression of summer warmth and 
color to the scene. There were branches of frail 
almond blossom, pink and silver on their brown 
boughs; bunches of damp heavydieaded violets, dim¬ 
ly purple; and quantities of carnations, crimson and 
pink, white and lemon-colored. Carina stppped and 
looked admiringly at the flowers. The man said 


290 


CARINA 


“Vuole?” and held out a bunch. She shook her head 
and passed on. She climbed the steps slowly and 
wearily, as if some great fatigue had taken posses¬ 
sion of her. 

Jim was already in the hall when she came in, 
and his cheerful face betrayed no sign of anxiety or 
displeasure. 

“I do hope you’re well wrapped up, Car darling,” 
he said; “it’s as cold as England to-day, and quite 
as sunless!” Elis tone was solicitous for her welfare. 

Carina glanced at her coat; it was fashioned of 
soft thick fur and reached to the bottom of her skirt. 
It had been Jim’s gift to her. 

“I’m not a bit cold, thanks, Jim. The morning 
air always refreshes me.” 

She followed him into the restaurant. He nearly 
always joined her there for their morning coffee. 

“Peter’s late,” 'he said; “I thought he was up. I 
looked into his room before I came down and saw 
that he wasn’t there.” 

Carina colored faintly, but she said nothing. 

“I don’t mind telling you that I’m very pleased 
with Peter, Car.” Mallory sipped his coffee com¬ 
placently. “I see I was altogether too hasty in sus¬ 
pecting that something was wrong. Only, one must 
be careful with boys of his age.” 

“I was sure there was nothing wrong,” said Carina 
uneasily. 

She wished that she had the courage to be per¬ 
fectly frank with Jim, and tell him what she had seen 
that morning. But it was Peter’s secret, not her own, 
and she hesitated to cause friction between father 
and son. She went on eating, feeling that each 
mouthful would choke her. 

It was almost a relief when Peter sauntered into 
the room. 

n Good-morning, Dad. Good-morning, Carina.” 


CARINA 


291 

He took his seat at the little table, and told the 
waiter to bring him some coffee and rolls. 

“What are you going to do to-day, Dad?” lie 
asked. 

“I’m going to the Palatine,” said Jim. 

It was his favorite walk. 

“I thought of going out to Verano—to the Campo 
Santo,” said Carina in a low voice. 

“I’ll come with you,” said Peter. 

To his surprise she answered: “No—not to-day. 
I’d rather go alone.” 

In reality she felt that if she shared that intimate 
moment of standing beside Mary’s grave with him, 
he would impulsively confide his secret to her. But 
Peter felt hurt at her refusal, explaining it to himself 
as an unwillingness on her part to share those poign¬ 
ant memories with him. He answered rather sul¬ 
kily : 

“All right. I’ll go on the Palatine with Dad.” 

“I hate cemeteries,” said Jim. “Chilly, depress¬ 
ing places. Don’t catch cold there, Car.” 

“Oh, I shan’t catch cold.” 

“But you’re looking pale and fagged this morn¬ 
ing. I think you ought to rest more.” His eyes 
were fixed in searching scrutiny upon her face, which 
at that moment was almost deathly white. 

“You don’t feel ill or anything, darling?” he said, 
in a low, tender voice. 

“Oh, no, Jim. I’m perfectly all right,” she an¬ 
swered brightly. 

All 'the time she felt as if she were deceiving him. 

But ^he wanted desperately to be alone that day, 
and it was for this reason she had formed the hasty 
intention of going out to San Lorenzo. It would 
occupy most of the morning, and she hoped that by 
the time she returned, her equilibrium would be at 
least partially restored. 


292 


CARINA 


Jim’s quick eyes had already perceived that there 
was something amiss. Naturally he had attributed 
it to her health, to the fatigue consequent upon her 
early walk and long fast. He disapproved of these 
-things for Carina, and was glad to feel that at Lin- 
fold she had no opportunity for such religious exces¬ 
ses, as he secretly termed them. But to Carina it 
was a matter of pure joy and thankfulness to be able 
to return once more to those practices which she had 
faithfully followed for so -many years of her unmar¬ 
ried life, when she would hardly have permitted a 
single day to pass without receiving Holy Com¬ 
munion. Even in the worst period of Mary’s illness 
she had almost always been able to slip out early and 
consecrate that first hour of her waking day to God. 
It had helped her to endure all the suffering and 
grief and anxiety which had been hers. 

Jim insisted that she should drive out to the cem¬ 
etery, and she complied. He and Peter stood on 
the doorstep of the hotel as she drove away. 

Peter would have a long morning with his father, 
and she wondered if he would gather courage to tell 
him the secret that possessed his heart. She longed 
for Jim to know, and yet she dreaded with every 
nerve in her body the moment of revelation. It 
would be a very crucial moment, and perhaps after¬ 
ward things would never be quite the same again. 


CHAPTER XXX 


I" N THE days that followed, Carina felt as if she 
had been granted a reprieve. There was no 
climax to interfere with their enjoyment of Rome. 
But whereas she perceived that the Catholic Churdh 
continued to make a deeper and deeper appeal to 
Peter, Jim seemed to disregard it deliberately. He 
never entered a church if he could help it, and when 
he did so, it was quite ostentatiously as a sightseer, 
with his guide-book in his hand. He made himself 
perfectly au fait beforehand with all the works of 
art and precious objects it contained that were worthy 
of notice. He did not like St. Peter’s and said so, 
almost lecturing Peter on the subject for fear he 
should be guided by Carina into an entirely opposite 
opinion. It was muddled from the beginning, he 
used to declare, and mistake had succeeded mistake. 
Its size was monstrous and disproportionate. The 
Baroque statues of the Saints were absurd. Com¬ 
pare them with the Pieta of Michael Angelo! He 
was disquieted, however, when he saw Carina kneel¬ 
ing before the Pieta for a moment’s prayer—that es¬ 
sential aspect of it had not occurred to him. But 
Carina found time to point out to Peter the beauty 
of the marbles and mosaics that enriched the basilica; 
the exquisite craftsmanship of Bernini that found 
ultimate mystical expression in the lovely Tabernacle 
that guarded the Blessed Sacrament; the grace of 
the Baldacchino that owed its existence to the same 
master-hand, rising above the Tomb of the Apostles 
with its hundred glimmering lamps burning like or¬ 
ange flowers in the dusk; the golden clouds from 


294 CARINA 

which was suspended the Chair of the Fisherman- 
Pope. 

While Jim discussed and argued, Peter remained 
silent, his eyes shining. He watched Carina wist¬ 
fully when she knelt before the Tabernacle, but he 
himself remained standing by his father’s side, not 
daring to imitate her. 

As they turned away, Mallory said with a touch 
of impatience: 

“I really refuse to admire anything on account of 
its size!” 

St. Peter’s stood for something he intensely dis¬ 
liked. More than any of the other basilicas did it 
remind him of the dogmatic side of Carina’s reli¬ 
gion. The Pope, for instance. He had always hated 
the Papacy, and had no wish to visit this, the latest 
successor of St. Peter. Carina might do so, if she 
wished it, but he wasn’t going to permit Peter to ac¬ 
company her. Unfortunately, he reflected, the quiet 
Protestant atmosphere of Unfold had done nothing 
to diminish his wife’s zeal and ardor for her own 
Faith. 

. St* Peter s he felt himself to be surrounded ob¬ 
jectively by those inimical influences which still 
formed such a barrier between ‘himself and his wife, 
not impairing their love, but certainly shadowing the 
brightness of its glory. Now that he was so sure 
of. her love, he had begun to feel the division in 
spiritual things rather less; she could come to him 
across it with her divine tenderness. But here it 
was very insistent, and its presence imbued him with 
something of his old irritable restlessness, accentuat¬ 
ing the sense of ultimate separation. St. Peter 
the Pope . . . the long procession of Popes— 

over two hundred and sixty of them since the days 
when Sc. Peter nad gone out probably on this very 
spot to be crucified head downward. A legend per- 


CARINA 


295 


haps. . . . He didn’t believe that there was a 

scrap of historical evidence to prove that St. Peter 
had ever come to Rome at all. Tradition showed 
you his dwelling place, his altar, the font where he 
baptized, the dark, terrible dungeon where he lay a 
prisoner. No one had ever doubted these things 
till the Reformation beat its hands unavailingly 
against the indestructible gates of the Papacy. 

As he stood there near the Confession where Car¬ 
ina was kneeling in prayer, he watched the people 
one by one going up to the bronze statue of the Saint, 
and kissing the worn foot. 

And everywhere in marble and in bronze, on tomb 
and baldacchino, the Triple Crown and the great 
Keys reminded him of the sacred threefold charge, 
the terrible power bestowed upon St. Peter and his 
successors. It challenged one, even here. Mallory 
moved uneasily toward the door, and stood waiting 
under the portico for Carina to join him. She came 
up a few minutes later followed by Peter, and they 
stood at the top of the steps looking down upon the 
piazza enclosed on two sides by Bernini’s sumptuous 
colonnade, and lit by the falling silver of Maderna’s 
twin fountains. To-day the sky was blue and high- 
hanging, and decorated with those immense solid- 
looking white clouds that may have inspired the 
Baroque artists in their mystical representations of 
the Saints ascending upon just such clouds as those 
into heaven. 

“There’s lots of time still before lunch,” said 
Peter; “as we’re so near, let’s drive up to the Jani- 
culum.” 

“Very well,” said Mallory. 

As Jim and Carina descended the steps side by 
side, the boy lingered behind them. He looked back 
at the portico above which was placed the sculptured 
representation of Christ giving the keys to the kneel- 


CARINA 


296 

ing apostle. Yes, you were confronted with that 
theme on the very threshold, and never afterward 
in the interior of the basilica were you permitted to 
lose sight of it. The pilgrims who came hither did 
not come only to worship Almighty God and His 
Divine Son, but they came also to give homage to 
that Son’s Vicar, visible upon the earth as Head of 
the Catholic Church, whose sway extended unques¬ 
tioned over millions and millions of men now as in 
past ages, and whose voice was gladly and joyfully 
obeyed by those millions. 

Peter crossed himself and said: 

“Lord, I believe. Help Thou my unbelief . . 

When Sunday came, Jim was scrupulous about 
going to the morning service at the English church. 
Probably if he had been alone with his wife, he would 
have accompanied her to Mass, as forming part of 
the significant “Roman” spectacle. Many English 
visitors, as he knew, soothed their consciences by 
saying they “could worship God and say their pray¬ 
ers as well in one church as in another,” while those 
of “High” tendencies would remind themselves that 
this was at any rate “the Catholic Church in Italy.” 
But many who were indifferent to the subtle claims of 
“geographical Catholicism” frankly enjoyed the 
music at St. Peter’s or at the Lateran, the stately 
procession of Cardinals and priests, even the fra¬ 
grance of what Browning called, the 

Good, strong, thick, stupefying 
incense smoke.” 

Jim, however, felt it incumbent upon him to set 
Peter a good example of consistent Christian be¬ 
havior. He informed him therefore that he must 
be ready to start shortly before eleven. 

“Oh, I wanted to hear High Mass at St. Peter’s! 


CARINA 


297 


Everyone does in Rome. Carina’s going—do let us 
go too, Dad.” 

A cloud of disappointment shadowed his sensitive 
young face. But his eagerness made it all the more 
imperative that he should be denied. Mallory 
frowned and said: 

“I prefer that you should come with me to the 
English church.” 

Peter went on with his breakfast in silence. But 
the crisp rolls and butter, the fragrant coffee, tasted 
like ashes in his mouth. To be in Rome, and yet 
not to be allowed to attend High Mass in St. Peter’s! 
. . . The thought was incredible, ludicrous, tragic. 

All at once he saw his father as narrow-minded, in¬ 
tolerant, prejudiced. A man who held himself with¬ 
in the arbitrary limits of his own local position, who 
was afraid of criticism and let himself be governed 
by what is known to the Catholic as “human respect.” 

. . . Peter felt the galling chain of his own com¬ 

plete dependence upon him. He wanted liberty and 
freedom, above all in spiritual things. 

Mallory, exasperated by his son’s silence and im¬ 
penetrable demeanor, said curtly: 

“Don’t sulk, for goodness’ sake, Peter. You still 
behave like a baby if you’re not allowed to have 
every mortal thing you ask for!” 

He glanced at Carina, who had taken no part in 
the conversation. Was she supporting the boy in 
his queer mute rebellion? Her face was quite tran¬ 
quil. She seemed almost to hold herself aloof from 
them in that significantly detached attitude of hers. 

“You don’t mind going alone, Carina?” said Jim. 

“Not in the least. It would have been nice, though, 
to have had you—and Peter.” 

Her smooth level tones quieted Jim’s nerves. 

“Another time, perhaps. But Peter and I mustn’t 
forget our duty to our own Church, though we hap- 


298 


CARINA 


pen to be in Rome. We must remember that we’re 
English and have our own Established Church to 
which, thank God, we belong.” 

“I could never forget that here!” Peter burst out 
unwisely. 

Jim raised his eyebrows. 

“So much the better. But you needn’t lose your 
temper, need you?” 

He eyed his son. What on earth did he mean by 
that impetuous speech? Mallory was resolved not 
to put the obvious interpretation upon it. 

Carina pushed back her chair. 

“I must go up to get ready. You know, it begins 
about half past nine.” As she passed Peter, she laid 
her hand for a moment on his shoulder. “You and 
Dad must come with me another time.” 

es . . . yes . . .” said Peter eagerly. 

He sprang up and followed her out of the room. 
He didn’t want to be left quite alone with his father 
just then. Jim was clearly in an irascible mood. 

Mallory lit a cigarette and went into the lounge, 
glancing perfunctorily at some English papers that 
were lying there on the tables. Something in Peter’s 
manner had perturbed him, awakening old misgiv¬ 
ings that had long ago ceased to trouble him. He 
had seemed so bitterly disappointed at being thus 
compelled to go to the English dhurch—a disappoint¬ 
ment out of all proportion to the slight sacrifice ex¬ 
acted from him. But Jim felt that he had been wise 
to insist. There was danger in exposing a sensitive, 
susceptible adolescent to the mighty magic of Rome. 
Had he not from time to time felt its spell working 
upon his own heart and imagination—a spell he had 
resisted with a fierce, deliberate effort of will? He 
remembered that night when he had knelt side by 
side with Carina at Midnight Mass in Lintown. 
Then, and for long afterward, that had seemed to 


CARINA 


299 


him a singularly hallowed hour, full of a mysterious 
sanctifying grace, that had touched even himself, in¬ 
tolerant and full of resistance as he was. And for 
Peter the Catholic religion would have a special at¬ 
traction because it was Carina’s Faith. Jim sighed. 
For a long time he had almost forgotten to dread 
the harvest that might be reaped from his own sow¬ 
ing. He had not been a young man when he married 
Carina; no one could accuse him of youthful im¬ 
pulsiveness, yet he had chosen her, a devout Catholic, 
to be his wife, the mother of his children, the step¬ 
mother of his son. But his conscience, though lulled 
by apparent security, had never been quite easy. He 
feared always to find that strange and bitter fruit 
might yet be gathered from that one lapse of his 
from wisdom and prudence. And it would have 
been useless to blame Carina for something for which 
he himself was primarily responsible. Yes, he had 
permitted himself to be ruled by his love for her. 
He had tried to give her up, and he had failed. And 
surely he had done well. She had been a most loving 
and tender wife to him; she was the devoted mother 
of his child; her influence over Peter had been a 
suave, sweet, wise one. She had always been beauti¬ 
ful to Peter, from the first day of her coming to Lin- 
fold; she had subjugated him with her charm and 
tenderness. . . . 

Jim flung down the newspaper; he had not read a 
word of it, for his thoughts irritated while they 
sought to absolve 'him. He had allowed Carina to 
have a pretty free hand with Peter, but she must not 
trespass beyond the defined boundaries. He was 
ready to put his foot down on any tentative sign of 
such invasion. It was part of his inherited creed 
not to trust a Catholic where religion was concerned. 
He had made an exception perhaps in Carina’s favor, 
because of her unfailing tact and discretion from 


3 °° 


CARINA 


which she had only departed in that one deplorable 
instance of the Carters’ case. But Humphreys had 
said that one never knew how far a woman was un¬ 
der the thumb of her confessor, who might dictate 
things that otherwise would never occur to her. 

He tried in vain that morning to shake himself 
free from these disagreeable reflections. Peter’s queer 
attitude of silent mutiny had aroused them. For a 
long time he had not thought of the Catholic Church 
in connection with his son, but now the old misgiv¬ 
ing had leapt into life again. Perhaps it had been 
a little rash to bring Peter to Rome. He had counted 
upon his supreme interest in the ruins and ancient 
monuments. . . 

During the singing of psalm and hymn that morn¬ 
ing, Mallory could not help noticing that Peter’s lips 
were obstinately closed. And he even had the un¬ 
comfortable impression that though the boy’s lithe 
young body was so near him, his soul was very far 
away. 

Carina always felt after that first Sunday in Rome 
that she was living on the edge of a volcano, the thin 
crust of which would presently crumble, precipitat¬ 
ing them all into the boiling molten abyss below. She 
could no longer close her eyes to the fact that the 
thing which had been absorbing Peter’s time and 
thoughts, first at Linfold and now in Rome, was no 
other than the Catholic Faith. He had now pre¬ 
sumably entered upon the final phase of the struggle. 
Carina felt something of the combat reflected in her 
own heart. It was as if she were sharing in his very 
fears; as if, too, she were an actual witness of the 
spiritual warfare in which he was engaged. She 
sometimes felt as if the blows and wounds were fall¬ 
ing upon herself. 

She longed for Peter to triumph,* and yet the con¬ 
sequences would, she knew, be terrible for them all. 


CARINA 


3 01 


Although she was certain of Jim’s love, she still be¬ 
lieved that Peter’s conversion might cause an actual 
temporary breach between them. He would assured¬ 
ly blame her. . . 

She felt almost as if she were faced with the pros¬ 
pect of a slow and cruel martyrdom. When she 
knelt down by the Confession in St. Peter’s that morn¬ 
ing, the tears flowed into her 'eyes. Dark and over¬ 
whelming waters threatened to engulf both her and 
Jim, submerging them, dividing them, like two 
drowning persons swept remorselessly from each 
other’s arms. 

She saw Jim from a new angle, as of one having 
power to inflict mortal hurt upon her. Her love 
for him, so weak and negligible at first, had gradual¬ 
ly permeated all her being. It was that very love 
that had placed a new sharp weapon in his hand. 
Because she loved him he could wound her to the 
death. 

The little fatal seeds of disease and disaster are 
sown from the very commencement of life and action. 
And, looking back, it seemed to her that she had 
always known, even when she married Jim, that ship¬ 
wreck would come, if it ever did come, through 
Peter. 

So in the days that followed she waited, with per¬ 
fect outward serenity and calm, for the storm to 
burst. Day after day, as she saw Peter come into 
the church of Sant’ Andrea for the early Mass, she 
knew that there could be but the one outcome. He 
never showed any signs of having seen her, some¬ 
times she even fancied that he deliberately avoided 
meeting her eyes. He knelt there, always in front 
of her, in an attitude of profound recollection. When 
she saw him thus, it seemed to her that the thunder¬ 
cloud darkened and came a little nearer, obscuring 
all the horizons of her life, even blurring the future, 


302 


CARINA 


in which nowhere was Jim’s face visible to her. She 
groped helplessly for the old familiar voice and con¬ 
tacts; they slipped past her in the darkness, eluding 
her. 


CHAPTER XXXI 


THE following Sunday morning, after a week 
of assiduous sightseeing, besides several expedi¬ 
tions to the hill-cities that were within easy reach 
of Rome, Carina returned from Mass rather later 
than usual, to find Jim partaking of his morning 
coffee alone. She had not seen Peter in church that 
morning, and concluded that perhaps he had over¬ 
slept himself. She sat down at the table, after greet¬ 
ing her husband, thinking no more of the boy’s non- 
appearance. His absence caused neither of them 
the slightest anxiety, and evoked from Jim only a 
brief, acid comment upon his increasing unpunctual¬ 
ity. It was only as eleven o’clock approached and 
the boy was still not visible that Jim, who was then 
ready to go to church, began to get annoyed. 

Remembering the little episode of the preceding 
Sunday, he had already determined that Peter should 
not be absolved from accompanying him again to-day. 
He was even prepared to encounter the same resist¬ 
ance, a repetition of the sullen silent attitude, his 
moody absentmindedness in church, his unconcealed 
boredom. 

Jim was alone, for Carina had already started for 
St. Peter’s, and he had walked down to the tram 
with her and seen her get into it. He was certain, 
therefore, that Peter hadn’t stolen a march upon him 
and accompanied Carina secretly to St. Peter’s. She 
had gone alone, looking charming, on that chill bright 
day of icy airs and brilliant sunshine, in her fur coat 
and a little hat that disclosed the short hair—the one 

303 


3°4 


CARINA 


touch of color about her. She had waved to him 
from the window of the tram, and afterward he had 
walked slowly back to the hotel, thinking of her and 
half-wishing that he had gone with her to-day. But 
that would have been to set Peter a bad example, to 
manifest afresh his own weakness. . . . 

Eleven o’clock struck, and there was no sign of 
Peter. He was not in his room, and upon inquiry 
Jim found that (he had not breakfasted. Mallory 
became annoyed, then anxious, and finally alarmed. 
But surely no harm had come to him? He ascertained 
that he had been seen to leave the hotel at an early 
hour—about seven o’clock. Yes, he had looked well 
and cheerful, the night-porter informed him. But 
he had said nothing and had left no message. 

Since they had left Linfold, Peter had shown no 
disposition to absent himself, to elude his father, to 
vanish for hours together on mysterious and unex¬ 
plained errands. But now ... it had begun 
again. Jim gradually worked himself up into a pas¬ 
sion of anger. He wasn’t going to have this kind 
of thing, disturbing his domestic peace. Peter should 
be told some plain home-truths when he returned. 
It was a pity he was too old to be chastised. 

Jim did not go to the English church that morn¬ 
ing. He told himself that he was far too much up¬ 
set about Peter. The boy was dodging him. He 
was up to some mischief, else why this persistent 
secrecy and reticence? This time he intended to 
get to the bottom of it. Hitherto he had avoided a 
definite scene with his son, out of consideration for 
Carina. Yes, that was the fatal, invariable reason 
of his hesitation, his lack of decision. . . . 

At one moment he even entertained the thought of 
going to St. Peter’s in order to meet Carina there and 
escort her home. But surely she would feel an in¬ 
tense surprise at seeing him arrive alone. No, he 


CARINA 


3°5 


preferred to wait here for Peter, to accost him the 
moment he came in, and insist upon an explana¬ 
tion. . . . 

He smoked innumerable cigarettes and glanced at 
the latest papers from England. The midday Ave 
Maria sounded from the neighboring belfries, a 
jangle of sound, rising and swelling in the still air. 
Carina ought to be back soon. There was still no 
sign of Peter. Jim rose at last and went into the 
hall. 

A cab drove up to the door, and from it descended 
two figures, his wife and Peter. 

So they had been together after all. Whatever 
the secret was, Carina was obviously aiding and abet¬ 
ting his son. 

Jim went up to them. 

“Peter, I’ve something to say to you. Come up 
to my room at once.” 

His voice held a harsh ugly sound. 

Peter glanced up as if slightly surprised. “Very 
well, Dad,” he replied cheerfully. 

They all went up in the lift together. Carina 
looked cold and nervous; she was very pale, and felt 
almost sick with apprehension. The cataclysm was 
close at hand. Jim’s face and manner told her that. 

While they were in the lift, he did not speak. Car¬ 
ina was the first to emerge from it when they reached 
their landing. She hesitated for a moment, and Jim, 
perceiving it, said: “No, Carina. I must see Peter 
alone. I’ve got something to say to him that you 
mustn’t hear.” 

He was extraordinarily controlled, but his eyes 
were slightly bloodshot and the veins stood out like 
cords on his temples. 

“Jim!” She uttered his naime appealingly. 

He did not seem to hear her, for he strode away 
down the passage toward his room, which was the 


3°6 


CARINA 


last of their suite and had its own separate entrance. 
Between this and their sitting-room was Peter’s little 
slip of a bedroom. 

Carina went into her room. Jackson had just 
brought Tony back from her morning outing on the 
Pincio, and the child was lying in her cot asleep. The 
maid withdrew noiselessly, and Carina went to the 
window and looked down upon the busy street below. 
She saw the scarlet-rimmed trams moving rapidly 
past, and the foot-passengers thronging the pave¬ 
ments. A lumbering wine-cart went slowly down the 
hill, for the road just there curved abruptly to a steep 
descent. In a garden close at hand the sun was 
shining on a grove of palms. Her mind was a prey 
to the gloomiest misgivings that invaded it like a 
swarm of malignant insects. 

It was true that she had encountered her stepson 
in St. Peter’s that morning. He had come at an early 
hour, he explained, in order to escape the service in 
the English church, and he had had a cup of coffee 
at a restaurant in the piazza. Beyond that, he had 
offered no explanation of his presence. During their 
drive back together he had seemed in the best of 
spirits, entirely free from anxiety or fear. 

It seemed to her that hours must have passed be¬ 
fore a. footstep sounded in the passage and Mallory 
came into the room. His thick greying hair was 
slightly dishevelled, and under his prominent black 
brows that traced a fierce line across his face, his eyes 
gleamed with a kind of satisfied, exultant savagery. 

He still had the carriage and physique of a much 
younger man; the easy grace, the supple athletic 
movements were still those of comparative youth. 
But his face now betrayed signs of age, and showed 
unmistakable traces of that violence of temper wEich 
had never been perfectly disciplined and controlled. 

‘‘Carina!” he said sharply. 


CARINA 


3°7 


“Yes, Jim?” She came toward him. Was his 
anger to be directed against herself? She, innocent 
of offence, of even a shadow of disloyalty, felt that 
upon her would inevitably devolve the full weight 
of the blame. Upon her so powerless. . . . 

“I’m going to take Peter home to-night,” he said. 

“Home? To-night?” she repeated. 

She wondered why the words seemed to have no 
meaning at all for her. Another thought, however, 
struck her immediately, and she said: “But it’s im¬ 
possible for me to be ready in a few hours like that. 
We’d better wait till to-morrow. And Tony has a 
little cold. It wouldn’t be wise for her to travel.” 

“Oh, you needn’t trouble about that,” said Mal¬ 
lory roughly; “I’m going alone with Peter. You’re 
to stay here for the present. But I must get him out 
of the way.” 

Carina raised her eyes to his. “What has Peter 
done?” she said. 

She felt a slow sinking of the heart. 

“Don’t try and fool me, Car,” he exclaimed, in 
a loud angry tone. “You know perfectly well. Of 
course, it’s all your doing. Don’t pretend ignorance 
—it drives me mad!” 

He was in a passion of rage, and seemed hardly 
to know what he was saying. He was in the mood 
when a man will sometimes use violence and even 
strike blindly at what he most loves. If she had 
been a less fearless woman she would have shrunk 
from him then, from the look of anger in his blaz¬ 
ing eyes. 

“I really don’t understand,” she said, in a cool 
firm tone. “Do be calm and try to explain.” 

“How dare you lie to me?” he shouted. 

“I’m not lying to you—I’ve never lied to you,” said 
Carina. 

“Do you mean to tell me that you don’t know 


3°8 


CARINA 


Where Peter’s been spending his time all these days 
and weeks? Whenever, in fact, he’s been away from 
home and refused to give any account of his doings? 
You encouraged me to bring him here, when you 
must have known that under the circumstances it was 
the worst place in the world for him. You’ve fooled 
me long enough, but you can’t deceive me now. You 
knew, and you encouraged him, though you were per¬ 
fectly aware what I should feel about it. Those 
priests of yours—it wasn’t likely that they would let 
him alone!” The rest of his speech was lost in ex¬ 
plosive incoherencies, impossible to follow. 

“You are mistaken,” she said, “I never had the 
slightest knowledge—I never even guessed anything 
—till the day we settled to come abroad. And then 
it was only guessing—I knew nothing for certain.” 

She perceived now, that Peter had had a definite 
reason for not telling her. He hadn’t wished to in¬ 
criminate her. “I’d tell you if I could. But I don’t 
want to—it’s better not . . .” She could hear 

his voice, just touched with emotion, saying those 
words, and even then scarcely a hint of their signifi¬ 
cance had entered her mind. 

“I shall take him home, away from this pestilential 
city,” continued Mallory, “and if he persists in dis¬ 
obeying me, I shall disinherit him. I’ve always said 
that I would. Lin fold isn’t entailed—I can leave it 
to the Fergus Mallorys. And I’d rather burn it to 
the ground than run any risk of its passing into the 
hands of the priests after my death.” 

“Jim—listen to me! I’d no idea that Peter—” 

He stopped her. “Oh, yes, I know; he told me 
the same lie.” 

“It’s a long time—more than two years—since he 
mentioned the subject to me. Of course, since we’ve 
been here I couldn’t help seeing how it was with him. 
But I’d no right to tell you what I fancied—it might 



CARINA 


309 


have been a mistake. . . 

“A likely story!” sneered Mallory. “Who else 
could have taught him—lent him books—deliberate¬ 
ly perverted his mind at a young and impressionable 
age? Who else but you—'the one person whom I 
trusted—the one person I loved?” 

Carina had come a little nearer to him as if to 
pacify 'him, and now in his fierce anger he pushed 
her roughly away. The gesture was so violent that 
it almost amounted to a blow. Carina staggered 
beneath it. She had the feeling then, that all her 
happy life had fallen upon irremediable ruin. 

The thunder-cloud had burst, the many waters had 
overwhelmed her; she and Jim were two drowning 
persons drifting apart . . . apart always till 

their death. . . . 

“He had the insolence to tell me that he thought 
I shouldn’t really mind, because I’d married a Papist 
myself, and allowed Tony to be baptized in the 
Roman Catholic Church. Yes, he brought that up 
against me. If he’d been a little younger I’d have 
flogged him within an inch of his life for that!” 

Carina stood there, her small hands hanging help¬ 
lessly at her sides. 

“So I’m going to take him home out of your way! 
You shan’t see him again. You pretended to care 
for him—you made him devoted to you—and this 
was what you were aiming at all the time! Pretend¬ 
ing to care for Peter! All this affection was only a 
cloak for your proselytizing propaganda . . 

You were out to entrap my son! But you can’t fool 
me any more. If you’d let Peter alone, we might 
have jogged on as comfortably as most people till 
the end of the chapter. But that’s just what you 
wouldn’t do—you couldn’t keep your hands off my 
son. If I leave Tony with you, it’s only because she’s 
too young to be separated from her mother.” 



3 JO 


CARINA 


Carina opened her lips but no words came. Had 
she really no right to 'her own child, the baby she 
had borne, and cherished with such absorbing care ? 
Could Jim take Tony from her if he chose, leaving 
her quite alone and solitary in Rome? She looked 
at him aghast This man, who had once loved her, 
had changed in the last half hour to a bitter, implac¬ 
able foe. 

“How long do you mean to leave us here?” she 
asked at last, with a glance toward the cot where 
Tony moaned and stirred in her sleep as if something 
of her father’s savage violence had penetrated into 
her baby dreams. 

He did not answer. 

“For long, Jim? For how long?” 

“As long as I choose. It depends upon Peter— 
whether he means to behave reasonably or not. I’m 
not going to sacrifice him to you any more!” 

“You mean I’m not to come back?” For the first 
time her voice was not quite steady. 

“You’ve left me no choice. You’ve lied and de¬ 
ceived me and fooled me to the top of your bent. 
Sophia warned me—but I was fool enough not to 
listen. And Humphreys warned me—even before 
I married—of the danger, the risk I was running. I 
thought they were exaggerating. I have learned to 
my cost they were right.” 

She did not rebel. His power was obviously too 
great. She must be thankful—oh, she was thankful 
—that in tearing her beautiful life to shreds he yet 
refrained from inflicting upon her the death-wound 
of separating her from Tony! That ultimate tor¬ 
ture of being parted from her own child was not 
to be hers. At least not now. But who could tell 
what the future might hold? She saw herself flee¬ 
ing into the wilderness, hiding from Jim, lest he 
should come and claim Tony. . . . 


CARINA 


3ii 

Hitherto she had listened in 'incredulous silence. 
But now reality was forced upon her. It was a sen¬ 
tence of banishment. All of a sudden Linfold seemed 
to hold her with clinging hands. 

Bruised and broken now, she sank into a chair 
beside Tony’s cot and hid her face from him. Surely 
he would soon come to his sense's and regret all that 
he had said . . . Jim was never very long angry. 

The tears flooded her eyes. 

“Peter told me that he was making arrangements 
to be received into the Roman Catholic Church be¬ 
fore we left Rome. He intended to tell me when 
everything was finally settled, apparently supposing 
that I should have nothing to say against it. He 
knows differently now. And he goes home with me 
to-night. I’m going to have no more nonsense.” 

He waftched her as he spoke. She bore her punish¬ 
ment bravely, without rebellion, without entreaty. 
That fine pride of hers sustained her. \ 

“I forgot how clever you were, Carina,” he added, 
with a sneer; “you hid that side from me. You 
played the loving, dutiful, submissive wife to perfec¬ 
tion. I was completely taken in!” 

Suddenly she rose and seemed to grope her way 
across the room toward him, as if she were moving 
in the midst of a hostile darkness that concealed in¬ 
visible foes, and was feeling after human contact. 

“Jim, dear—don’t let’s quarrel—” She was close 
to him now, and she laid her hand timidly on his 
arm. 

She had never known that gesture fail before to 
calm him. Now it only infuriated him anew. She 
had always bewitched him—always! He had re¬ 
solved to steel himself against her enchantments, and 
he shook her off now with a rough energy, as if she 
had been to him a repulsive object. 

“As long as Peter’s at Linfold, and until he’s con- 


3 12 


CARINA 


vinced me that he’s going to obey me in this matter, 
I won’t have you in the house!” His voice rang 
through the room. Yes, he had brought this disaster 
upon himself by marrying a Catholic wife, thus intro¬ 
ducing an alien and powerful element into his home. 
He had reckoned upon the superior strength of his 
lifelong influence over Peter, but Carina had proved 
too strong for him. Never while life lasted, he told 
himself, could he forget that interview with his son. 
For the first time it had not been a dispute between 
parent and child; they had confronted each other as 
man to man. “How was I to know you’d take it 
like this?” Peter had inquired. “You’d married a 
Catholic—you’d promised that all your other children 
should be baptized and brought up as Catholics. 
What objection could you possibly have after that 
to my being one?” . . He had wanted to 

strike Peter then, to strike him to the ground, but 
his hands had dropped helplessly to his sides. Peter 
had been the least to blame of all. . 

He went out of the room. She realized then that, 
moved by some tardy and mistaken sense of duty 
toward his son, he had east her off. And now it only 
seemed to her that the whole sequence of events, since 
her first meeting with 'Mallory, had moved forward 
tragically, inevitably, to this climax. On the night 
of Lady Murray’s dinner-party the first seeds of 
to-day’s horror had been sown. She was engulfed 
at last by the overwhelming waters, and as the waves 
passed over her head she lost all sense of security 
and stability. She had held out her hands to Jim, 
as she might have done had she been actually drown¬ 
ing, and he had repulsed her. She muttered uneasilv 
to herself: “It isn’t true—it can’t be true . 7 

this can’t have happened to me . . . it’s im¬ 
possible. 


I 


CARINA 313 

But it had happened. The loud-roaring tidal wave 
had passed over her head. . . . 

She went back to her seat near Tony’s cot, and a 
deadly chill came over her, enveloping her as if with 
a garment of ice that clung to her from head to foot. 
Even now she could scarcely believe in the reality 
of the scene through which she had just passed. She 
had often seen Jim angry before, had heard him 
utter words that he had afterward deeply regretted; 
from the first days of her marriage she had realized 
that her husband was a man of violent and often un¬ 
controlled temper. But she had never before seen 
him so bitterly and implacably ’angry. So angry in¬ 
deed that he purposed to leave her for an indefinite 
period, with no thought apparently of the deep and 
lasting wrong he was about to inflict upon her. He 
no longer believed her word. On the contrary, he 
believed that she and Peter had combined to deceive 
him. She had caused the breach that now threatened 
between father and son. And she had been so care¬ 
ful. . . . Never once 'had she permitted Peter 

to accompany her to church in all those years at Lin- 
fold; he had never attended any service in a Catho¬ 
lic churdh with 'her during that time. But, because 
of her and of his love for her, he had been led from 
very early days to make inquiries for 'himself into 
the religion she professed. He had attended Mass, 
and had come under the peculiar and powerful in¬ 
fluence which the Blessed Sacrament so frequently 
obtains over ardent and sensitive souls. He had 
gone forward—flow and when, she did not know— 
quietly and secretly, but very earnestly. And now 
he had come to the crossroads, wfien he would have 
to make a definite choice. Carina was not a convert, 
and she had not had to make that choice, nor offer 
the sacrifices it so often entails. And in her 'heart, 
forgetful now of her own grief, she felt an immense 


3i4 


CARINA 


spring of compassion welling up and flowing toward 
Peter, because if he chose aright he would have to 
suffer very bitterly. He would perhaps set lasting 
enmity between himself and his father, thereby suf¬ 
fering heavy temporal losses; he would be cut off 
too from any communication with herself. And he 
was a boy who loved his home, and all the simple 
wholesome joys and affection that he found there. 
Carina’s heart ached for Peter. She longed to go 
to him, to speak words of confident courage in this 
hour of trial. She would have endeavored perhaps 
to urge him to be faithful to his high resolve. But 
something within her told her that that at least would 
not be necessary. 

Tony awoke and began to cry. She was hungry, 
and Carina rang the bell and ordered the waiter to 
bring some food up to the sitting-room, for herself 
and the child. She did not dare go downstairs and 
meet Jim again just then. 


CHAPTER XXXII 


T ONY was unsettled and restless, as if she were 
subconsciously teased by her mother’s sorrow. 
She flung down her doll, refused to regard her india- 
rubber horse, and after weeping a little in the pur¬ 
poseless manner of small children, asked that Peter 
might come up and play with her. 

“Peter can’t come now, darling,” said Carina, 
soothing her. 

“But I want him!” 

“He . . . he is going out with Daddy . . 
“Will he come back to tea ? I want him to play 
bears with me,” lisped the baby voice. 

“I don’t know, dear . . . I’ll put on your 

things, and take you to the Pinero.” 

The afternoon was fine, and the fresh air would 
be good for Tony, after the heated hotel room. All 
at once the great hive-like building with its busy-idle 
life had become hateful to her. Tony stood patiently 
while her mother dressed her. In a few minutes 
they were descending in the lift to the ground floor. 

Carina glanced nervously around, but she saw no 
sign of Jim or Peter. She wondered wdiere they 
were—what they were doing. Perhaps they had gone 
out to see about their tickets. They might have some 
difficulty in getting places, especially if they wished 
to have sleeping berths. 

She was thankful for the little distraction afforded 
by this task of taking Tony out. It was impossible 
to fix her mind upon that incredible future while the 
child was with her, demanding her whole attention. 

315 


3 l6 


CARINA 


Like all children Tony seemed to expect a show of 
animal spirits from her adult companions. 

As she passed the window of the smoking-room 
s'he saw J-im standing there with folded arms. His 
face was hard as a stone mask. He watched them 
without moving. 

Carina thought suddenly: “He doesn’t love me 
any more.” 

She had often, especially in the early days of their 
marriage, accused herself of not loving him enough. 
But now she was ready to fall on her knees and en¬ 
treat 'him to reconsider his harsh decision. His bit¬ 
ter, unloving words had driven a sword into her 
heart. She felt it like a physical wound. Did that 
mean that now, when he did not love her any more, 
she loved him as once he had loved her? 

She hurried toward the Pincio, holding Tony’s 
hand tightly in hers. Tony had evidently not ob¬ 
served that pitiless stone image at the window, or she 
would certainly have called to “Daddy” and besought 
him to accompany them. She was fond of her f ather, 
although she was terrified of him when he raised his 
voice to her. It was Jim’s nature to be rough and 
autocratic with children; he had little patience with 
them. 

It would have been terrible to leave Tony to the 
tender mercies of Jim. Tears came into her eyes 
at the thought, and before ^he could wipe them 
away, Tony had noticed them. 

“Kwying, Mummy?” 

Carina tried to laugh. Tony clung to her hand. 

“Don’t kwy, Mummy,” she said, and lifted her 
rosy little face for a kiss. Carina bent down and 
kissed her almost passionately. No, she would not 
have tamely submitted if Jim had threatened to sep¬ 
arate her from her child. She would have fought 
for the possession of Tony. 


CARINA 


3i7 


She felt as if she had gone to the edge of a dread¬ 
ful precipice, and that Jim’s hands had urged her to 
the brink of it. It was terrible to feel the force of 
his power as she had felt it to-day. Iris had felt it 
too, and it had killed her. For the first time Carina 
almost envied Iris because she had been able to die. 
But then death had meant separation from her little 
son on whose behalf she had suffered such vicarious 
torments. No—that would be the worst fate of all, 
—to die and leave Tony. She began to pray that 
it might not happen—the very thought chilled her. 
It must be terrible for the mother of a little child to 
find herself dying. She shrank from the thought 
and drew Tony closer to her. 

On the Pinciio, standing by the stone balustrade 
whence generations of tourists have watched the sun 
setting behind St. Peter’s, Carina looked down upon 
Rome. Everything to-day was outlined with a- 
curious soft distinctness. There was a fluid golden 
light in the west that seemed to flow tenderly over 
the houses, the grey roofs, the noble domes. The 
flattened glass dome of the Augusteo flashed in the 
pale winter sunlight. 

Surely, Jim would not humiliate and shame her by 
leaving her here alone, in a hotel Where she had 
several acquaintances and Where gossip would be 
busy trying to explain his sudden departure with his 
son. It seemed impossible, she told herself over and 
over again, that in one short half hour Jim should 
have become her implacable foe. She looked at 
Tony, playing so happily and unconsciously with her 
doll, now restored to its position of first favorite. 
Her child and Jim’s . . . Had he lost all affec¬ 

tion for Tony, as well as for herself? Did he care 
only for Peter? Was the old first tie, after all, the 
only strong and permanent one ? She saw now how 
morbidly even if half subconsciously he had, dur- 


318 


CARINA 


ing the three and a half years of their married 
life, permitted himself ito cherish the fear that 
as a punishment for his marriage Peter would 
one day succumb to her influence and become a Catho¬ 
lic. He had been warned more than once, so he had 
told her, of the risk he was running. Yes, through¬ 
out those years, despite the harmonious acceptance 
of the spiritual gulf that divided them, he must have 
feared and dreaded the blow that had now fallen 
upon him. And in revenge he had struck out blind¬ 
ly, as a man wounded by a cruel blow will strike in 
the heat of revengeful anger. She wished she could 
have known some details at least of that critical, 
tragic interview between the father and son. She 
wanted to know what Peter had said, besides the 
words Jim had repeated to her; how he had looked 
. . . how he had borne himself in that moment 

of revelation, faced by those threats of punishment, 
of disinheritance. 

Mummy—my dolly’s tired. She wants her tea.” 

Tony always attributed to her doll her own fatigue 
and hunger. 

“Does she, my precious?” 

“Yes—she’d like to go in now and play bears with 
Peter!” 

“Then we’ll take her in, darling.” 

Carina dreaded the return to the hotel. She was 

afraid of meeting Jim with that new hard look in 
his eyes. 

She had hardly .reached the sitting-room when 
Peter entered it. His face was very grave and there 
was a suspicious brightness in his eyes. He put his 
arm round her and kissed her. 

“Carina, you know what’s happened, and Pm 
awfully sorry for your sake. Forgive me. I ought 
to have seen what it would mean for you. But I 
thought Dad would at least believe me when I told 


CARINA 


3i9 


him it had nothing to do with you—except for the 
fact that you were a Catholic—you, the most perfect 
woman in the whole world!” 

“But, Peter—I can’t bear your going off like this,” 
she said. 

“Oh, you mustn’t think about me. It’s his leav¬ 
ing you here alone with Tony, that I don’t feel as 
if I could ever forgive.” 

“Where is Jim?” she asked, wondering how Peter 
had been able to snatch the interview with her. 

“He’s gone out for a few minutes. I’ve been 
watching for an opportunity to run up and say good¬ 
bye, to you, Carina. To thank you over and over 
again for all you’ve done for me. He would have 
stopped me, if he’d known I was coming.” 

“Don’t stay, Peter—you’d better not. Your father 
is very angry, and we must try to see (his point of 
view too. I wish I could have helped you more.” 

Her eyes were bright with tears, and her voice held 
a desolate sadness. 

“If you didn’t do more, it was because I wouldn’t 
let you. Oh, I tried so hard to keep you out of it, 
so that the blame anyhow shouldn’t fall on you. But, 
you see, I didn’t succeed, and I’ve brought this awful 
trouble upon you. Carina, perhaps if I give up the 
idea for a year or two until I’m of age, he may 
forgive us both, and come and fetch you very soon. 
Would you like that?” He took her hand. He was 
much taller than she was now, and he looked down 
at her with a queer boyish tenderness, just as if she 
had really been his mother. 

“No, Peter—even for my sake and to help me, I 
shouldn’t like you to do anything against your con¬ 
science. If you feel that the Holy Spirit is calling 
you, don’t hold back for any earthly reason . . . 

I shall manage. . . 

“I must ask advice,” said Peter; “this isn’t a thing 



3 2 ° 


CARINA 


I can decide for myself. All this has complicated 
everything so. . . .” 

“I hope you were good and patient with your 
father,” she said. 

“I tried to be. It wasn’t easy when he began to 
blame you—to say you’d deceived him. Sometimes 
I think he sees the truth himself and is fighting 
against it. One has that feeling just at the begin¬ 
ning, you know. And afterward you feel that if any 
obstacle were to be put in your way it would simply 
kill you.” 

“You’re quite, quite sure about it, Peter?” 

“So sure, my dear Carina, that the prospect of 
being disinherited doesn’t trouble me in the least. I 
can work . . . It’s only the thought of you that 

holds me back. . . .” 

“You mustn’t let it hold you back,” she said. She 
felt as if she were pronouncing her own death- 
sentence. 

“I knew you’d say that. But, you see, I’m not sure 
if I ought to accept the sacrifice. I feel that when 
I’m received, it will take my father such a long time 
to forgive you. In fiis present mood forgiveness is 
out of the question.” 

They stood fading each other in silence for a few 
minutes, and then Peter said: 

“I must kiss Tony good-bye, Carina. No, I can’t 
play bears to-day, Tony! What a darling she is! 
I’m glad you’ve got her out of the general ship¬ 
wreck. . . .” He stooped down over the child, 

and pushing aside the dark curls he put a butterfly 
kiss on her rosy little face. 

“And now good-bye, my dear, dear Carina.” 

She kissed him, holding his hands in hers. 

“Good-bye, dear Peter. Be very patient, won’t 
you, with Jim? Remember he’s suffering too. And 


CARINA 


321 

PJ?7,^ or us both.” Her mouth quivered a little. 

Write to me, if you can. . . 

“Of course I’ll write. Please pray for me, Carina 
——pray that I may always feel the same courage 
about it as I do now—that I may always have the 
same faith.” 

He went out of her presence then very quietly, and 
with a look on his face of such passionate sincerity 
and earnestness, that she was never able to forget 
it. He was ready to sacrifice everything but herself, 
and before this thought he hung back. Carina 
crossed herself and said a little prayer for him. She 
prayed that he might indeed never lose his presen/t 
high, resolve and courage, the faith that was as a 
burning flame. 

The afternoon had darkened into dusk. A star 
or two hung trembling in the sky. With the help 
of Jackson she put Tony to bed, and then went back 
into the sitting-room with the door open between the 
two rooms so that she could hear the child’s every 
movement. It was getting near the time for Jim to 
start for the station. She knew the hour of the train 
quite- well. She wondered if he intended to come 
and say good-bye to her. She sat down, and tried 
to read. It w^as nearly seven o’clock when the door 
opened and Mallory came in, dressed for travelling. 
He wore his heavy fur-lined overcoat. 

“We’ve had our dinner and now we’re going to 
start,” fhe said, in a hard toneless voice. He had a 
queer sodden look about the eyes. 

“Yes?” she said. 

“We shall travel straight through to Unfold.” 

“Yes?” she said again. Then desperately: “Jim, 
how long do you really mean me to stay here?” 

“I don’t know. It depends upon Peter,” 

“Upon Peter!” 


322 CARINA 

“Yes—I shall give him every chance to submit— 
to obey.” 

His eyes, she thought, were the color of rusty iron, 
and had something of its lustrelessness. 

“And supposing he doesn’t?” she urged. 

“Then he’ll have to shift for himself. I think he 
thoroughly understands the position. They’ll find,” 
and he gave a grim laugh, “that he isn’t the catch 
they imagine!” 

He was obviously thinking only—but oh, so deeply 
—of Peter. His grief was for his son. Not for the 
wife he was leaving, nor for their little girl—Carina 
believed that he hardly gave them a passing thought. 
As in the old days before she had come into his life, 
his heart and mind were wholly occupied with his 
son, his first-born. Through all his harshness he 
loved the boy as perhaps he would never again love 
child of his. 

“And then?” she asked. 

“I can’t think about the future now.” He looked 
at Carina, and his face was still as hard as a stone 
image, and almost as expressionless. 

“You mean I’m to remain away indefinitely— 
perhaps forever?” 

He was silent. 

“Jim, you’ve no right to exile me like this ! You’re 
treating me as if I’d done something wrong—some¬ 
thing disgraceful!” 

Her voice was passionate. She was thinking almost 
with anger: “He may have been cruel to Iris, but 
at least he never sent her away. She lived and died 
under-his roof.” 

“Come, Carina,” said Mallory, coolly eyeing her, 
“you know you never cared about me—you didn’t 
try to conceal it when we were engaged, did you? So 
don’t pretend you’re heart-broken now.” 

“I’m not pretending to be heart-broken,” she re- 


CARINA 


3*3 


turned Indignantly, her pride sharply touched. “I’m 
only asking for justice for myself and Tony. You’re 
putting me in a false position.” 

“Don’t make a scene, for goodness’ sake, Carina. 
We needn’t advertise our unfortunate disputes before 
the whole hotel. You know perfectly well why I’m 
acting in this way. You’ve been a disloyal wife to 
me. You’ve come between me and my son. You’ve 
used his affection for you to stab me in the back. I 
won’t have you at Lin fold again until he has given 
up this idea. I make no promises about the future. 
It’s all so uncertain . . . But I must think of 

my son.” 

Carina looked at him desolately. 

“It means that I shall never come back,” she said. 
“Peter won’t give way, Jim—you know that as well 
as I do. And if my return depends upon his doing 
so, I shall not even wish for it. He won’t be the first 
or the last to give up great possessions for the 
Faith!” Her eyes kindled. 

“That will do, Carina,” he said coldly. “Good¬ 
bye.” 

He went into the bedroom and bending over 
Tony’s cot he kissed her. Then he returned, nodded 
slightly to Carina, and went out of the room with¬ 
out a single further word of farewell. When he 
had closed the door she burst into a passion of weep¬ 
ing. Up to the last she would not believe that he 
really intended to leave her, stranded alone in Rome 
like this. But now she felt the parting to be a final 
one. His love for her was quite dead. For more 
than three years it had enfolded and protected her 
life with a warm and beautiful atmosphere. His love 
had seemed to shield her from all rough contact with 
the world and its harsher side, and because of it she 
had readily forgiven -all his faults of temper and 
obstinacy; they were mere surface things that did not 


324 


CARINA 


strike deep into the soul. If he had been self-willed 
and domineering, he had yet made the way of sub¬ 
mission easy for her. He had given her so much; 
he had filled life to the brim for her. And latterly 
it had been so easy to do Jim's will in little things, 
because in regard to the great things of his promises 
he had been so scrupulously faithful. 

Now he had gone away, and he had said no word 
to hold out any hope as to their future meeting, or 
to suggest they should ever see each other again. 
Yes, he had taken Peter away, and had closed the 
doors of Linfold upon herself and Tony. He had, 
almost without warning, left her alone in a shameful, 
humiliating situation. She would be known to all 
her little world as the woman whom Mallory had 
ceased to love, the wife he had turned from his door. 
He had deliberately cast her off, and his last words 
to her had shown her how little she counted—how 
little their long love counted—in comparison with 
Peter. 

A chill, blank sense of despair began to invade her 
heart, and whereas she had never truly believed that 
Jim intended to desert her, she was now equally in¬ 
credulous as to any future reconciliation. The very 
manner of his going had set the final seal upon their 
separation. 



CHAPTER XXXIII 


'THE days that immediately followed Jim’s de- 
A parture were quite devoid of any news of him, 
but after his arrival in England Carina received sev¬ 
eral letters from his solicitor, informing her of the 
financial arrangements he proposed to make. There 
was a finality about these plans for allowing her an 
adequate supply of money, that gave if possible an 
added touch to the desolation of her present position. 
All she did was to write in reply refusing to accept 
any money from 'her husband. In her letter to the 
lawyer she added: “I have sufficient in the bank for 
my present needs, and I can always earn more if 
necessary.” 

She wished that she had never come to Rome. Her 
present grief, so bitter, so steeped in humiliation and 
failure,, spoilt her other beautiful and tender if sad 
memories of the Eternal City. She knew far too 
many people there to be able to keep her solitary 
position quite unknown, and unfortunately before the 
catastrophe she had already announced her arrival 
to several of her old friends, who had shown much 
eagerness to pick up the threads and see her again. 
But at least for the present she need not tell them 
how terribly things had gone awry. They must 
believe—as long as possible—that Jim had been 
called suddenly back to England, and that she had 
elected to remain a little longer in Rome for reasons 
of health. Her husband had brought her abroad, 
she. had her child with her; on the face of it the 
position appeared perfectly normal. She was ill 

325 


326 


CARINA 


enough in the days that followed his departure, to 
convince anyone who might be at all curious on the 
subject, that her health was sufficient excuse for her 
remaining behind. 

It was a definite illness, bringing complete pros¬ 
tration and filling her with a certain apprehension, 
even terror of the future. She dreaded to consult 
a doctor lest her fears should be confirmed. But 
she wrote a note to Lady Murray, briefly telling her 
of all that had passed, and urging her if possible to 
come and join her in Rome. “If you can possibly 
bring me any news of Linfold, I can only say I shall 
be very, very thankful. But don’t try to see Jim,” 
was the pitiful little postscript. 

She had written to Peter too, but had received no 
answer. His silence was significant. . . . 

Carina’s old friends in Rome had never prophesied 
well of the marriage. How would she like living in 
England all the year round—she who was so accus¬ 
tomed to the sunny days, the blue skies of the south? 
And then there was too mudh difference in age and 
general outlook. Mallory was a fairly well-known 
man, it had been easy for them to ascertain that he 
was of the sporting squire type, conservative, narrow- 
minded, deeply attached to his own property and 
spending the greater part of his life upon it. It wasn’t 
in his favor either,, that he had put a stop to her 
writing, and that since her marriage she had ionly 
published one book, obviously written just before 
that event. It was rumored that he had done this 
deliberately, disliking any kind of fame or notoriety 
for her. Those who saw him in Rome did not doubt 
of Carina’s affection for him; she seemed perfectly 
happy with him and her little girl, and that tall son 
of Mallory’s. And Mallory had seemed devoted to 
his wife . . . At first nothing leaked out, of the 

dispute that had ended in their sudden separation. 


CARINA 


327 


Carina’s word was accepted, for certainly she was 
much too ill to travel. The only wonder was that 
Mallory should have cared to leave her. . . . 

They had all agreed, when discussing her, at the 
Roman tea-parties that winter, that between Mrs. 
Mallory and Carina Ramsden there was a great gulf. 
Three years of matrimony had changed her beyond 
belief. Mrs. Mallory was beautiful, assured, and 
cold. She wasn’t eager and ardent and spontaneous 
as Carina Ramsden had been; those youthful quali¬ 
ties had disappeared, and there were not voices want¬ 
ing, to add that no doubt they had been quenched 
by the severe conventionality of her new mode 
of life. It was known too—for these things are 
always known—that Jim’s first marriage hadn’t been 
at all happy. And now Carina was alone in Rome, 
alone with her child, and apparently ill . . . 

Such a young attractive creature—what could her 
husband be thinking of? He had gone, taking that 
overgrown stripling of a son with him. The pieces 
were all there, in a chaotic jumble, like a jig-saw 
puzzle waiting to be fitted together and made into a 
harmonious picture. The fiery tongue of gossip was 
not idle for long. There were hints of a grave 
quarrel between husband and wife. Mallory had 
left with his son almost at a moment’s notice—a 
most unexpected departure. On that last day Car¬ 
ina hadn’t appeared at meals at all. The Trueman- 
Laceys, who were staying in the same hotel, reported 
that the relations of father and son seemed excep¬ 
tionally strained. No doubt Carina had had some 
pretty stiff lessons to learn in those last three years. 

Mrs. Trueman-Lacey—a frivolous gossiping crea¬ 
ture whom Carina had never been able to endure— 
paid her a visit of affectionate inquiry on hearing that 
she was ill. She knocked at the door of her sitting- 
room, taking Carina, who was lying on the sofa, 


CARINA 


328 

quite by surprise. But as she had purposely come 
unannounced, there was no possibility of escape, and 
Carina had to meet the torrent of questions as pru¬ 
dently and patiently as she could. 

“Oh, I shan’t be alone long,” she said, nervously. 
“My aunt, Lady Murray, is coming out; I daresay 
we shall take an apartment for a few weeks. I al¬ 
ways think it’s so miserable for a child in an hotel.” 

For it surely couldn’t last longer than a few weeks 
—this unnatural separation, this significant silence. 
Perhaps Lady Murray would bring her news of a 
comforting nature. Carina was hoping for that more 
than she would dare admit even to herself. The 
dreadful part was that she felt she would die if Jim 
didn’t come 'back to her. She couldn’t live without 
him. It wasn’t only the feeling of his strong love for 
her, but it was the companionship, the shared inter¬ 
ests, and daily little events of their life together. It 
was everything that made married life at once easy 
and difficult, sweet and bitter. Just the sharing of 
things with another person. This cold separate 
existence seemed to have no meaining at all. 

“Oh, then you don’t expect Mr. Mallory to come 
back and take you home?” inquired Mrs. Trueman- 
Lacey, in her thin staccato voice. 

“Oh, no, Jim’s mudh too busy. And just now in 
the hunting season . . .” She was aware that the 

explanation lacked conviction, that it would hardly 
deceive a child. She wished her visitor would de¬ 
part, but Mrs. Trueman-Lacey having effected an 
entrance was not disposed to relinquish quite so 
readily her Chance of finding out something. She 
hinted, she probed, she questioned as delicately as 
she dared, but she elicited nothing from her victim. 

“I shall look in to-morrow and I hope to find you 
much better,” she informed her. “And if you don’t 
get better soon, my dear, I should just write, if I 


CARINA 


3 2 9 


were you, and tell Mr. Mallory that you don’t think 
Rome’s agreeing very well with you, and that he’d 
better come out and fetch you home at once!” She 
gave 'this counsel in a brisk cheerful tone. 

“Oh, I don’t want to worry Jim about my health,’’ 
said Carina feebly. 

Carina longed for iher aunt’s arrival. She felt 
that she was the only human being, besides her hus¬ 
band and Peter, whom she now wished to have with 
her. They had not seen a great deal of each other 
since her marriage, except just at the time of Tony’s 
birth, but they had corresponded frequently, and 
sometimes Lady Murray had spent a few days at 
Linfold, when she had been delighted to find that her 
niece was so happy and contented in her new life. 
It would be a blow to her to learn of the sudden 
catastrophe that had fallen upon them now. 

Lady Murray made her plans for departure almost 
immediately on the receipt of Carina’s letter. It 
told her little beyond the appalling fact that Jim had 
actually left his wife, refusing to permit her to return 
to Linfold, because Peter had announced his inten¬ 
tion of becoming a Catholic. Carina gave no hint of 
personal grief or discomfiture; the letter was for the 
most part only a cold and succinct statement of fact, 
without comment or criticism. It could not possibly 
mean that she was glad? . . . Lady Murray 

swiftly set that unlikely hypothesis aside. No 
woman, she reflected, however hideously unhappy 
her marriage, could find any relief or pleasure in 
being deserted. It was like having a blow in the 
face, with all the world looking on to witness one’s 
humiliation. It was, in short, to be flung publicly into 
the dust. Nothing could compare with it except 
perhaps the brutal breaking off of an engagement. 
And Carina had a proud nature. She must have suf- 


330 


CARINA 


fered greatly—she must still be suffering. She could 
not be left alone. And naturally she had turned to 
her aunt Nora. . . . 

Lady Murray rang the bell for her faithful maid, 
Martha. 

“Tell Smith to go to Cook’s and get two tickets 
for Paris on Monday, and for Rome in the luxe on 
Tuesday. He must take our passports with him.” 

“Very well, m’lady.” 

The maid withdrew, and immediately delivered 
the message. Both she and Smith had grown grey 
in her ladyship’s service, and no order, however 
sudden, perplexing, or preposterous, could possibly 
have “rattled” either of them. But speculation was 
not unnatural to them, and Smith remarked crypti¬ 
cally : 

“This has got to do with Miss Carina . . . 

She’s in Rome—there was a letter from her by the 
h’afternoon’s post!” 

“You mean Mrs. Mallory,” corrected the maid, 
primly. 

“Yes, I mean Mrs. Mallory,” grinned Smith. “Er 
leddyship made that match or I never saw one made! 
I can remember the dinner-party here when they 
first met. He was took with her at once.” 

Martha cut ^hort his reminiscences; there was no 
knowing when he would stop when once he got fairly 
launched. 

“You’d better be starting. And don’t forget the 
train de luxe from Paris.” 

Jim had been gone rather less than a fortnight 
when Aunt Nora arrived in Rome. Her shrewd 
handsome face was like sunshine and tonic-wine com¬ 
bined to Carina, who was still obliged to lie on the 
sofa most of the day, and was growing intensely 
weary of her four walls. 

She let herself be gathered to that ample breast, 


CARINA 


33i 

and a renewed sense of stability and balance returned 
to her. 

“Well, my dear, I’ve come you see,” said Lady 
Murray. 

‘Yes, I see,” said Carina, holding out her two 
thin arms. “You dear!” she added impulsively. “It 
was perfectly sweet of you to come so soon.” 

“But, my dear child, what on earth’s happened?” 

“Just what I told you in my letter.” 

Lady Murray sat down by her side and took pos¬ 
session of one of her hands. “Are you sure there 
was nothing else? It seems almost too slight—es¬ 
pecially when he allowed Tony to be baptized a 
Catholic!” 

“Ah, that’s just what Peter was counting on,” said 
Carina. 

“You’d really given him no other cause for anger 
or jealousy?” inquired Lady Murray. 

“None at all. In fact, just when I thought I was 
being a really brilliant success as a wife, Jim showed 
me I was an unforgivable failure. I fell from such 
giddy heights that I’m still feeling rather shaken and 
bruised.” She smiled wanly, but her tone was almost 
gay. She had made a stern attempt to pull herself 
together during the last few days, when the first vio¬ 
lence of the shock had in some way diminished. In¬ 
nocence is at least a great support when one is, so 
to speak, on trial. She had conquered the first im¬ 
pulse to despair. 

“Did you hear any gossip or anything before you 
left?” she asked. 

Lady Murray shook her head. “I started so soon 
there was no time. I telephoned to Linfold, and 
luckily it was Jim himself who answered. I was mor¬ 
tally afraid of hearing Sophia’s voice. He was very 
uncommunicative, except that he was still hoping to 


332 


CARINA 


avert the ultimate catastrophe. But he very so or 
rang off.” 

“Did you tell him you were coming?” 

Lady Murray nodded. 

“What did Jim say to that?” 

“He said you were at liberty to make any arrange¬ 
ments that you pleased!” 

Carina winced. 

“I’m sure,” said Lady Murray, “that there must 
be something behind it all. This can be only a pre¬ 
text. Or else one must charitably suppose him to be 
mad.” 

“There’s nothing else, and he isn’t at all mad,” 
said Carina. 

“This comes,” said her aunt, “of marrying a man 
you never really cared for. Sooner or later, how¬ 
ever clever you are, they always find it out. . . .” 

“But I did care for Jim, Aunt Nora,” protested 
Carina, with tears in her eyes. “I’d learnt to care 
very much indeed. I daresay I wasn’t much in love 
at first—I didn’t pretend to be. But there was always 
something about him that attracted me, and made 
me feel I wanted to see him again. And latterly— 
since Tony came—” She lifted her face, white and 
troubled, under the mass of red-gold hair. 

“Then what on earth made him do it?” 

“Because though be seemed to love us—Tony and 
me—I believe he really only cared supremely for 
P eter.” 

“I do hope you didn’t encourage Peter, Carina?” 
said Lady Murray, almost severely. 

“Peter wouldn’t let me. He was so awfully afraid 
of laying me in any way open to blame. Wasn’t it 
sweet of him to think of it like that ? He was simply 
horrified, poor boy. But of course it was my doing 
in so far as I was a Catholic, and that very soon 
made him want to know more about it—I think at 


CARINA 


333 

first he was only moved by a kind of sympathetic 
curiosity. But then that was Jim’s fault, too, for 
marrying a Catholic!” 

Lady Murray was secretly relieved to find that 
Carina was on the whole so calm, so capable too of 
a dispassionate and temperate discussion of her un¬ 
happy situation. 

“You can apply for a restitution decree after a cer¬ 
tain time has lapsed,” said Lady Murray, who had 
informed herself on the point before leaving London. 
“But that means you’ll first have to write Jim a per¬ 
fectly formal little letter asking him to come back 
to you.” 

“I shall never do either of those things!” said 
Carina warmly. 

“I’m really very sorry for you, Carina. Espe¬ 
cially as you do care about him—that makes it all 
the harder. I blame myself for encouraging the 
marriage. But it seemed so suitable—such a solu¬ 
tion.” 

Carina said emphatically: “Don’t reproach your¬ 
self, Aunt Nora! I’m very glad I married Jim—I 
wouldn’t alter that if I could. We were very happy, 
and then I’ve got Tony. That’s what really mat¬ 
ters—a child of one’s own . . . thank God, he’s 

left her with me! And then what makes it easier in 
one sense is that I am suffering for the Faith. I 
know it’s only a miserable paltry little suffering that 
hardly counts. It isn’t like being racked or burnt. 
But it’s suffering, all the same—it does hurt. It’s 
humiliating to be left as Jim left me.” 

“My dear, it’s appalling.” 

Lady Murray leaned back exihaustedly in her chair. 
A slight diversion was caused at that moment by the 
entrance of a waiter, who carried in a tray with some 
supper for her. There was a cup of hot soup, some 
cold diicken and salad, fruit, and a bottle of wine. 


334 


CARINA 


“Come and eat something, dear Aunt Nora; you 
must be famished,” said Carina. 

“Yes, I detest meals in the train. It’s worse than 
being on board ship. I can never face that shaky 
restaurant car more than once a day. Some people 
seem quite to enjoy it.” 

There was a little silence while she proceeded to 
eat her supper. But she was thinking of Carina all the 
time. “The man must be mad,” so ran her thoughts, 
“to turn his wife out on such a miserable pretext. 
And such a wife! Really, she’s more lovely now than 
she ever was.” She gazed suddenly at the beautiful 
charming face opposite to her. Yes, Carina had 
gained, not lost, in beauty since her marriage. 

“I’ve never cared for Jim so much as I do now,” 
said Carina, tranquilly, as if she were analyzing 
someone else’s situation rather than her own. “I 
suppose that’s always the case—that one never knows 
how dear a thing is till one has lost it. I’m afraid 
if he were to walk in now, I should be quite abject!” 

“He must be made to come to his senses,” said 
Lady Murray, peeling a fine orange. “Yes— 
another glass of wine, my dear. You’d never had 
any serious quarrel before, had you?” 

“No, not for ages, and never anything very seri¬ 
ous. I gave in, you see, about my writing, and about 
seeing Richard Grove—I soon discovered those were 
the two thorny points! And since Tony was born, 
he’s been different—more tender, less critical. I 
really think I’ve been perfectly happy these last two 
years.” 

Looking back it was difficult for her to see exactly 
where she had failed. Of course during the first year 
there had been the inevitable clash of temperaments 
that were perhaps not too well suited to each other 
at the best of times; it was a period of difficult ad¬ 
justment such as most married persons of strong 


CARINA 


335 


personality are bound to experience. But of late the 
harmony had been very perfect. And it was a har¬ 
mony that Peter had shared, and to which he had 
indeed contributed. 

“I remember his once getting angry with Peter for 
reading one of my books—he forbade him to read 
any of them. That was when we were first married. 
But I hoped—we all hoped—his prejudices had 
grown less violent.” She paused for a moment, and 
then said hesitatingly: 

“Aunt Nora—I’ve still got something else to con¬ 
fess, but you must promise not to tell Jim!” 

“You know I can’t bear making promises in the 
dark, Carina,” said her aunt briskly; “they can land 
you in such horrible difficulties—such tangles of 
equivocation!” 

“But this is an important secret, and I’d like to 
tell you. You’re the only friend I’ve got in the world 
now, dear Aunt Nora.” 

“Well, then, I suppose I must promise.” She 
sipped her wine, sincerely hoping that Carina was 
not about to reveal another and yet more grisly 

skeleton. 

“I’m going to have another child,” said Mrs. Mal¬ 
lory, simply. 

Lady Murray stared at her. 

“You didn’t tell Jim?” 

“No—I was waiting. But I’d made up my mind 
to tell him that very day.” 

“I should advise you to write to him at once. It 
will make all the difference. He can’t go on with 
this madness under the circumstances.” 

Carina said indignantly: “I shall do no such thing! 

I only want Jim to come back for the one reason— 
that he loves me, and can’t do without me. I should 
hate him to come for any other. I'm not going to 
work on his pity.” Her eyes flashed. 


336 


CARINA 


“I hope he’s giving you some money? If he isn’t, 
I shall have to see about it,” said Lady Murray. 

“Oh, I’ve heard from his solicitor, offering me 
an allowance—he wanted to pay a quarterly sum into 
the bank for me. But I’ve refused it. I’ve got a 
good balance, and then there’s the capital I made. 
It isn’t much, but it’ll last me a good long time. I’ve 
spent so little of my own money these last three 
years. If you’ll stay with me for a bit and help me 
to find an apartment, I shall start work again. I’m 
not afraid of work, and I know I can keep myself 
—and my children. Didn’t I keep myself and Mary? 
But I can’t stay in this hotel—the people persecute 
one with questions and kind inquiries. Now you’ve 
come, we can look for something.” 

She spoke as if the banishment were final. Her 
plans were evidently devised irrespective of any hope 
that Mallory might return and claim her. 

“But if Jim comes?” 

“He won’t come. But in any case, I don’t intend 
to hide. I shall leave my address with the lawyers.” 

Lady Murray checked an impulse of anger. 

“Does Richard Grove know?” she asked present- 

ly- 

“Yes—I felt I ought to write to him. I couldn’t 
leave Richard in the dark.” She paused and then 
added: “He never wanted me to marry Jim.” 

“Oh, he was afraid you’d give up your work.” 

“And I did give it up—it was the thing Jim hated. 
I made the sacrifice to please him, and because he’d 
made sacrifices in order to marry me.” Her eyes 
softened. “I really hadn’t felt much wish to write 
. . . but now I think it’s coming back to me.” 

“Someone must see Jim and speak to him—he 
must be made to see reason!” 

“I don’t want Jim to be worried,” she said simply. 
Her loyalty, considering the cruel strain imposed 


caTuna 


337 


upon it, was almost flawless. “And I shall never wish 
to go back to a man who quite obviously doesn’t 
want me. Not for any reason, Aunt Nora!” She 
held her head proudly. Mallory had not destroyed 
anything of that fine indomitable spirit of hers. “I’ve 
been independent so long, I am not at all afraid of 
being alone and of having to work.” 

“Carina, you can’t be so supine as to sit here and 
let things go on as they are. You must think of your 
child—of your children! It’s an impossible situa¬ 
tion for you!” Lady Murray’s voice was crisp and 
decisive. “After all, you’re Jim’s wife—nothing can 
alter that.” 

“Yes, I’m his wife. It’s nearly four years since 
we first saw each other. I shall be twenty-nine 
soon.” 

“You don’t look it. I will say this for you, that 
you look quite extraordinarily young,” said Lady 
Murray. 

Her anger against Jim Mallory was slowly deepen¬ 
ing. He had behaved with unpardonable harshness, 
and she wanted to tell Carina so. He ought to have 
seen for himself that she was looking pale and 
fagged, and wanted care and tenderness. But Carina 
was far too deeply attached to her husband to take 
any pleasure in hearing him denigrated. Yet her 
life was in ruins, and her heart was almost broken 
with grief—one could discern that across the bright 
rather determined gaiety of her manner, and despite 
too that brave calm of hers. She, an innocent 
woman, had been left practically deserted -in Rome, 
and her husband had not even troubled to tell her 
the probable duration of her banishment. What 
wonder, then, that she accepted it as perpetual? 

There was no word bad enough for Jim; he had 
behaved like a cad, and how dared he behave thus 
to her niece! Lady Murray’s thoughts were now 


CARINA 


338 

almost fiercely resentful; she was sorry she had not 
gone down to Linfold before she left England, and 
bearded Mallory in his den, and expressed some of 
her sentiments aloud. 

His first wife had died of a broken heart, and 
if Carina did not die, it was only because she was 
made of sterner stuff than poor little Iris Mallory. 

The coming of another child seemed to add a final 
and cruel complication. Lady Murray began to wish 
she had not made that promise. Jim ought to be 
told. Drastic measures were necessary to bring him 
to his senses. Yet there was dignity too in Carina’s 
total freedom from self-pity, her proud determina¬ 
tion not to resort to sentimental measures in order 
to call Jim back to her. * 

Lady Murray had never been troubled with reli¬ 
gious scruples or prejudices, and on the whole she 
was as free from spiritual difficulties as any woman 
of her age and intelligence could be. She went to the 
Established church on Sunday mornings at eleven 
o’clock, and was, more often than not, openly bored 
by the sermon. She couldn’t quite believe in her heart 
that the fear of Peter’s conversion to Catholicism 
was at the root of Jim’s action. There must be 
another motive which had not yet been discovered. 

Perhaps that idea had also occurred to Carina, 
since she was so certain it was not a temporary but 
a final separation. . . . 


CHAPTER XXXIV 


URING the days that followed her arrival in 
Rome, Lady Murray watched her niece close¬ 
ly. Directly she was better she rose early, went out 
to Mass, and on her return breakfasted in the sitting- 
room with Tony. They did a little sightseeing to¬ 
gether of a mild and unfatiguing type, and also 
searched for an apartment, for Carina was anxious 
to leave the 'hotel as soon as possible. She seemed 
tranquil if not happy when engrossed in these small 
activities. Her health had improved, and her face 
showed strangely little sign of grief. She was ex¬ 
traordinarily patient, and seemed to be living on a 
hope that she dared not express. She spoke of Jim 
readily, and even seemed to like talking about him 
and their life at home. It was easy to see that 
her heart was at Linfold. When letters came, she 
seized upon them with a kind of feverish eager¬ 
ness—almost the only emotion she ever displayed— 
and then after examining them her face would grow 
stone-cold with disappointment. But to her aunt 
it was evident that this man, \Vho had once been so 
desperately, so even imprudently in love with Car¬ 
ina, had now ceased utterly to care for her. Lady 
Murray, who had jogged through thirty-five years 
of harmonious if unexciting matrimony, was always 
astonished at such ruptures. People, she was fond 
of saying, hadn’t the same sense of responsibility 
that they used to have. And she was sure that Car¬ 
ina was not in the least to blame. She was behav¬ 
ing so perfectly, and there was every reason to be- 

339 


340 


CARINA 


lieve that she had been a model of discretion and 
prudence, even of self-sacrifice. 

Rome was crowded that spring, and Lady Mur¬ 
ray met many of her London friends and acquain¬ 
tances . . . Carina begged her from the first 

not to hold herself aloof from them, and indeed 
she was able to fortify herself against undue ques¬ 
tioning by a brave, disarming show of frankness. 
\ es, she "was with her niece, Mrs. Mallory, who 
had come abroad for her health. The winter in 
England, you know . . . And she wasn’t ac¬ 

customed to it. There was one child—a little girl. 
Mr. Mallory had brought them to Rome soon after 
Christmas, but had now returned to Linfold. A 
busy man . . . his finger in every local pie 
. . . ^ es, there was a son—by the first wife— 
now at W oolwich, a handsome, very promising boy. 
Devoted to his stepmother—Carina had contrived 
to make even that relationship a gracious and 
charming one. If ugly rumors were abroad, neither 
Lady Murray nor Carina heard them. 

They found an apartment in a modern palace 
standing close to the Tiber on its right bank. It 
^vas high up, and there was a beautiful view over 
Rome, with the lovely bend of the Ripetta just in 
front of them, and the fine dome of S. Carlo beyond. 
Across the massed roofs of grey and golden tiles, 
and the dark rim of pines on the Pincio, they could 
see the lovely outlines of the Alban hills soaring 
against the sky. From the other side of the flat 
they saw across intervening green gardens, dark 
with ilex and palm, the great Dome of St. Peter’s, 
colored in tones of cool pallid silver at dawn, and 

at dusk deeply purple against the glowing sunset 
sky. 

Carina was delighted with the apartment, and 


CARINA 


34i 

very soon after they had arrived there and settled 
in, she began to work. 

“That’ll be the saving of her, if she doesn’t over¬ 
do it,” thought her aunt. 

It was a return to the occupation of her old life 
before she had met Jim. But whereas then she 
had worked for Mary, she could now feel that she 
was working for Tony, and for the second child 
that would one day be born to her. Apparently 
she did not.dwell much on that coming event— 
perhaps it w r as too remote. 

She w r orked with an immense absorption, almost 
as if nothing else existed in the world for her. 
In reality Carina was thankful to find she still had 
the creative power, the strong desire to work, driv¬ 
ing her forward like a superior force. During the 
past three years these faculties, once so urgent and 
imperious in their dominance, had not troubled her, 
and sometimes she had believed they were actually 
becoming atrophied from sheer inanition and want 
of use. But stimulated perhaps by that long rest, 
her mental energies seemed now more vigorous than 
ever. She was in many ways a much more expe¬ 
rienced woman than the Carina Ramsden who had 
written those skilful, artistic books that had brought 
her name and fame before her marriage. She had 
come into contact with people of different creeds 
and ideals from her own. She had seen life at many 
points, had been both inexpressibly gladdened and 
deeply wounded by it. Her outlook had widened, 
but she seemed now to be walking among shadows 
from whence, if she looked back, the bright glory 
of her past happiness hurt her eyes. 

“Now don’t work yourself to death!” said Lady 
Murray, coming in one brilliant morning to find 
Carina sitting at a table strewn with well-filled 
sheets. 


CARINA 


342 

Her hair was slightly dishevelled. The fury of 
creation was upon her, devouring her. She looked 
up from a white sea of manuscript. 

“Richard Grove was right—too long a holiday 
is a mistake. One gets out of practice. Ihe tech¬ 
nical part becomes rusty. I believe the fear of get¬ 
ting stale is quite a modern idea. Were Raphael 
and Michael Angelo and Bernini afraid of getting 
stale? Look at their output!” 

“That’s all very well, my dear. But they were 
men,” said Lady Murray. 

April had come with its wealth of wistaria and 
Banksian roses, its fresh vivid young green, glim¬ 
mering like a carpet in the Campagna. But there 
had been a sudden burst of heat toward the middle 
of the month, and Lady Murray had feared it 
might exhaust her niece. On the contrary, how¬ 
ever, Carina appeared to be stimulated by it to a 
fresh display of mental energy. 

“Dear Aunt Nora—I want to finish. One’s al¬ 
ways so afraid of something stepping in to stop 
one. I don’t think I’ve ever begun a book without the 
thought—not exactly a fear—that I mightn’t live 
to finish it. And this must be out in the early 
autumn. I’ve written to Swaine about it—he’s wil¬ 
ling to give me the same advance-royalties as I had 
last time. And I’ve sold the serial rights—Richard 
Grove’s seen to that—the first instalment will be 
out next week.” 

She fastened several sheets together with a metal 
clip. In her work she always showed a most dainty 
and meticulous care. 

“I should like to have seen Richard,” she added, 
softly. 

“I think he was very wise not to come,” said 
Lady Murray, with decision. “Of course it was 
absurd—a man old enough to be your father—but 


CARINA 


343 


Jim was always inclined to be jealous of him!” 
Hers was a practical nature, and she knew that 
women living apart from their husbands, especially 
when they were young and very pretty, could hard¬ 
ly be too scrupulously careful. It was indubitably 
for this reason that she had resolved to remain with 
Carina all through the summer heat in Rome. She 
couldn’t possibly have left her alone, even if no baby 
had been expected. 

Lady Murray’s hopes of a reconciliation had ap¬ 
preciably diminished. When the baby came, per¬ 
haps . . . But that wouldn’t be till the end of 

August. Carina seemed determined not to go away 
till after that event. “I want my son to be born 
in Rome,” she had told her aunt. 

Lady Murray insisted upon driving out with her 
every afternoon. Carina avoided the Pincio and 
the Borghese Gardens, and they nearly always went 
into the Roman Campagna, and walked for a little 
there in the cool of the evening. Tony invariably 
accompanied them. Carina had sent Jackson home, 
and had engaged an Italian bambinaia to help her 
to look after the child. 

“Jim wouldn’t let me have a Catholic nurse at 
Linfold,” she remarked one day, “but I can do as 
I choose now.” 

The book was finished in June. Lady Murray 
was thankful when the neat parcels had been des¬ 
patched to London and New York. It was very 
hot in Rome just then, with long hours of burning 
sunshine, and since the completion of her book Car¬ 
ina had looked pale and seemed listless and lethar¬ 
gic. She was consumed with homesickness although 
she made no complaint. In the bright fierce glare 
of a Roman summer her eyes ached for the cool 
greenness of Linfold with its glimpses of sea, divine¬ 
ly blue. 


344 


CARINA 


Lady Murray had often suggested 'that they 
should return to London, but Carina was quite de¬ 
cided on the point. She never meant to return to 
England unless Jim wanted her to go back to Lin- 
fold. She could make a home for herself and her 
children in Rome. 

“And you know you needn’t stay with me, unless 
you like, after the baby’s born. I’m not unselfish 
enough to let you go before then,” Carina told her. 

“My dear, I shouldn’t dream of leaving you,” 
said Lady M urra Y? with energy. 

She watched her, as she sat by the window one 
evening when an approaching thunderstorm had 
kept them indoors. Carina’s hands lay idle and help¬ 
less-looking in her lap. She had never felt like this 
before, inert, almost lifeless, as if the very vitality 
were ebbing from her. Hope and suspense were 
alike being succeeded by a kind of dull, placid ac¬ 
quiescence. She did not even feel that she wanted 
Jim very much. At first, of course, it had been ter¬ 
rible without him, but now she was too tired. Re¬ 
membering the joy she had felt before Tony was 
born, she wondered idly why no reflection of that 
emotion was able to touch her now. If she gave a 
son to Jim would it re-awaken his old love for her? 
No, it had perished utterly, without warning, and 
as it seemed in a single hour. Nothing could stir 
those dead ashes to renewed flame. . . . 

And besides, as long as possible, she was resolved 
to keep the news from him. The worst thing that 
could happen to her, she told herself, would be that 
Jim, still unloving, still hating the sight of her, 
would constrain her to return home from purely 
conventional motives, and in order to obtain pos¬ 
session of his children. 

There was always the fear, too, at the back of 
her thoughts, that some day in the far distant future 


CARINA 


345 

he might come and take those children away from 
her. Had he not said he had left Tony with her 
because she was too young to be separated from 
her mother? But when Tony grew older. 

When she reached this point, Carina’s courage 
seemed to give way. . . . 

Her little son was born in the first days of Sep¬ 
tember, and though she recovered quite as quickly 
as before, she still remained in that inert listless 
condition, as if nothing could rouse her. Lady 
Murray was not satisfied about her, and took her 
to the seaside for a few weeks. But Carina ex¬ 
hibited such a craving to return to Rome, that she 
had been obliged to curtail their sojourn. 

The baby was baptized Innocent, and was pro¬ 
nounced to be exactly like his mother. He certain¬ 
ly possessed her reddish-gold hair and fair skin, and 
he had dark blue eyes, rather like Peter’s. He was 
really prettier than Tony, who as she grew older 
became more and more like her father. 

Carina would hardly suffer the children out of her 
sight; she had them constantly with her, night and 
day. Lady Murray remonstrated, but it was of no 
avail. Carina was obstinate on the point. It was 
almost as if she feared that some evil might befall 
them. . . . 

Her new book, Gifts and Sacrifices, was published 
in the early autumn. Richard Grove wrote flowing 
accounts of its reception and success. From a 
financial point of view it was a far greater success 
than any of her former works. She wondered if 
Jim had seen the huge advertisements in the daily 
papers, New Novel, by Carina Ramsden. But per¬ 
haps he was too indifferent now to be annoyed by 
them. 

From Linfold Jim Mallory made no sign. 


CHAPTER XXXV 


C HRISTMAS was approaching, and Peter had 
returned to Linfold. Jim had extracted a 
promise from him that until he left Woolwich he 
would take no further steps in the matter of be¬ 
coming a Catholic. The boy had made the promise 
readily, hoping and even believing that it would 
induce his father to send for Carina. He. was bit¬ 
terly disappointed, therefore, when he discovered 
that Jim had no intention of recalling his wife. . On 
the contrary, he seemed more than ever determined 
to prevent all intercourse between her and his son. 
He was convinced that separated from her influence 
the subject would gradually cease to interest Peter. 
He would come to see that the temporal losses which 
would inevitably follow his conversion would be 
very heavy and quite permanent. The fact that he 
had made the promise of present submission to his 
father’s will, augured well for the future. But to 
have Carina back would be to frustrate any hope 


of the kind. # 

One evening Peter walked into his study and laid 

a book on the table. 

“Dad, I’ve brought you a copy of Carina’s new 




book.” 

“I don’t wish to see it. Take it away 
Jim gave it a little push. But his. keen eyesight 
had read the title on the colored “jacket.” Gifts 
and Sacrifices by Carina Ramsden. So she had 

used her old name. . . 

“D a d—I wish you’d ask her to come back. I’m 
sure she would if you asked her—she’s so forgiv 
ing always. 


M 


346 




CARINA 


347 


Jim Mallory controlled his anger with difficulty. 
Peter had behaved admirably all these months. The 
forbidden topic had not been mentioned between 
them, and he had also been almost scrupulously 
silent on the subject of his stepmother. Jim had 
made it a condition—a hard one—that he should 
not write to her. No letters had passed between 
them since Carina’s solitary one to Peter, written 
soon after their return. As he had sent none in 
reply, she came to the conclusion that he had not 
received it. She understood, and forbore to write 
again. 

“I can’t bear to think of Carina and little Tony 
in Rome alone,” said Peter, emboldened by his 
father’s silence. 

“They’re not alone,” said Jim. “Lady Murray’s 
-there. And Carina is perfectly fitted to look after 
herself—she did so for a number of years before 
we were married.” 

“I’d like you to read her book,” said Peter, tim¬ 
idly; “it’s beautiful and sad. I’m glad, though, she’s 
been able to write again—it must have helped her.” 

He took up the book, handling it with loving care, 
as one touches the possessions of the beloved dead. 
Then he sat down near his father’s writing-table, 
and leaned his head on his hand. There was some¬ 
thing he wanted to say, and to-night he felt con¬ 
strained to say it. # 

“I’ve wanted to tell you for some time past, Dad, 
that nothing can make any difference now about rny 
decision to become a Catholic. I shall be leaving 
Woolwich in the summer, and I ve made up my 
mind to be received then.” He spoke very simply. 
“And if you can’t make it possible for me to stay 
in the Army, I shall go to the colonies. I m afraid it 
will be no use my applying to my grandfather Fear- 
don for help.” 


348 


CARINA 


“It certainly will not,” said Jilm angrily; “you’ll 
have to shift for yourself until you’re twenty-five, 
when you’ll have your mother s money. 

As he spoke he looked at his son with hard, cold, 
unhappy eyes. During the last few months he had 
visibly aged; he looked more than, his forty-five 

“I shall leave Unfold to the Fergus Mallorys, 
he said presently. “I’m not going to add to my 
folly by letting it pass into Catholic hands, either 

yours or Tony’s.” 

Peter accepted the threat without remonstrance. 
He knew his father too well by this time to think 
that he ever spoke idly. And upon this point Jim s 
mind was most obstinately made up. 

“I quite understand, Dad,” he said frankly. 
“Somehow I’ve always had the idea that it would 
never in any case be mine. I felt that more than 
ever when you married again.” 

“That is nonsense—it was only imagination,” 
said Jilm, in a stern tone. “There is nothing to 
prevent your succeeding me here when I die, unless 
you commit some act Which in my opinion is a dis¬ 
graceful one. Your becoming a Catholic would be 
both a folly and a disgrace.” 

“Dad . . . now that you know it won’t make 

any difference, won’t you go and fetch Carina?” 
Peter’s voice almost broke on the words. 

Jim brought his hand down with vigor on the 
writing-table. 

“Don’t dare mention her name to me again! She 
has brought nothing but misery and dissension to 
this house. She’s not been writing to you again, 
has she?” 

“I’ve never had a letter from her,” said Peter. 
He knew then that there must have been one, and 
that his father had not permitted him to have it. 


CARINA 


349 


He smothered an exclamation of anger—he would 
have given worlds to have held that letter in his 
hand, to have had news of Carina. Bitterly as he 
had blamed his father in his thoughts for his harsh 
and cruel treatment of her, he had never before felt 
this fierce indignation against him. 

“She must be longing to come back—it’s eleven 
months—nearly a year,” said Peter, after a brief 
pause. 

“I forbid you to speak of her!” said Jim. 

It was intolerable that Peter should come and 
speak to him of Carina now. . . . 

He thought of the day, more than four years ago, 
when he had brought his young wife to Linfold. 
He could see her now, wrapped in her dark furs, 
with that easy boyish grace of hers, a young, slight, 
lissom creature, all great grey-green eyes and white 
skin. How charming she had looked with that shock 
of clipped red-gold hair—he remembered his first im¬ 
pression of her, confided to Lady Murray, that she 
resembled a page in an old Florentine picture. And 
then later, Carina with Tony in her arms, suffused 
with a sort of rapturous content. How exquisite 
she had been in her young motherhood. . . . 

He put these thoughts from him, hardening his 
heart against her, as all through the past year he 
had deliberately hardened it, so that the memory 
of her should not effect any surprise entrance, weak¬ 
ening his fierce resolve. She had taken his son from 
him. She had coldly set about winning Peter’s af¬ 
fection—how well she had succeeded, the boy’s 
words had just taught him. Jim would never let 
himself believe that she hadn’t done it from a sin¬ 
ister ulterior motive. Peter must be a Catholic— 
Linfold must pass into Catholic hands. All that 
property and wealth must come under the control 
of the Catholic Church ... It wasn’t so much 


350 


CARINA 


what he had to fear from his wife, so Humphreys 
had told him, as what he had to fear from the 
priests who directed her. But he could still defeat 
her, yes, and defeat the priests, who must have 
urged 'her to make the experiment. He had never 
imagined that marriage with a Catholic could pos¬ 
sibly prove so fruitful in disastrous consequences. 
Carina had been so much younger than himself that 
he had supposed it would be a simple matter to 
govern and restrain her. But his iron will had 
only secured her submission in certain exterior 
things. In spiritual matters, as Mallory saw now, 
he had never bad the slightest dominion over her. 
There was always a sense in which she had seemed 
to dwell apart, in a fair, beautiful region whither 
he had no power to trespass; and in that secret re¬ 
mote sphere she had worked quietly, silently, but 
with deadly purpose and accomplishment. He had 
never known or guessed anything until that winter 
day in Rome when he had extorted from Peter the 
confession that he intended to become a Catholic. 
It was too late then for anything but the most 
drastic punishment, and this he had inflicted upon 
Carina without remorse. 

But he had suffered too. He could not punish 
Carina, keep her out of his sight, exile her from 
his hearth, without flagellating his own soul. There 
had been eleven months of this separation, and 
sometimes he had felt no longer able to endure the 
adhing desire for her darling presence. Her voice 
. . . the touch of her . . . And then he 

would deliberately slay those longings by letting his 
anger poison and stifle his very love for her. She 
must learn that she could not resist him with im¬ 
punity, that when he struck he could strike hard. 
He could not have treated her more cruelly if he 
had discovered she had been unfaithful to him. The 


CARINA 


351 

world was at liberty to place that interpretation 
upon his action if it so willed, and though he did 
not know it, it had not failed to do so. The world 
saw only that she was deserted and abandoned by 
her own husband, and in the absense of any author¬ 
itative explanation, drew its own conclusions. . . . 

U I should like to see her again, before 1 leave 
England next year—if I have to go. I loved her 
from the first day she came to Linfold. She was 
so dear and good to tme.” Peter’s voice was tender 
with reminiscence. 'Jim stirred restlessly before 
that urgent appeal. 

Peter could see her now—standing on the thresh¬ 
old in the darkness and storm of the winter night, 
beckoning to him, calling him in out of the rain. His 
loyal love for her had never faltered since that 
hour. And he knew what she must be suffering, 
away from her husband, away from Linfold. 

“And it was never her fault,” he proceeded quiet¬ 
ly, “unless you could say it was her fault for being 
a Catholic at all. That made me think of Catho¬ 
licism for the first time. But you knew that—you 
must have foreseen that there would be a risk.” His 
clear dark blue eyes looked straight into his father’s 
face. But the sense of being judged by that young 
and limpid vision aroused anew Jim’s anger. 

“Peter, I can’t imagine why you’re speaking to me 
in this way. I won’t stand it any longer—you can 
leave the room! I don’t wish to hear your opinion 
of my wife. If you don’t go at once I’ll kick you 
out,” he added savagely. 

But Peter, unmindful of the threat, still lingered 
there. 

“Dad, do have pity on her! She must be so un- 
happy—” 

“Unhappy? She never cared for any of us. She 


352 


CARINA 


has Tony—that’s all she wants. A brat to spoil and 
bring up in her own Faith!” 

His tone was harsh and bitter, but it informed 
Peter that he himself had suffered, was perhaps still 
suffering. It encouraged him to proceed. 

“Dad, it isn’t true . . . she loves us all. 

Think how awfully happy she made us ... It 
was you who turned against her because of her Faith. 
Why, it was the most perfect thing about her! I won¬ 
der you didn’t see that yourself. I wonder it didn’t 
make you find out for yourself what the Catholic 
Church was really like, instead of asking old Humph¬ 
reys and Aunt Sophia who know nothing but their 
own ignorant prejudices.” An increase of courage 
made his voice sound clear and ringing, and he was 
subtly aware that he had at last gained his father’s 
attention. “And in any case you ought to have her 
back! It isn’t safe for a young beautiful woman like 
Carina to be wandering homeless about the world, 
because her husband has deserted her for no fault 
of her own!” 

The blue eyes flashed like tempered steel. 

“I tell you she’s not alone. She’s got Lady Mur¬ 
ray and Tony with her. She’s much happier free, 
and living that independent life. . . .” 

Greatly daring, Peter leaned forward and touched 
his father’s brown hard hand. 

“Dad,” he said, “don’t persuade yourself that 
she’s happy. If you know anything of Carina, you 
must know that she’s broken-hearted. Oh, she 
wouldn’t show it. I’m sure she laughs when she 
plays with Tony—she always said you should never 
show little children if you were sad or worried— 
it wasn’t fair to thdm. But in her heart—” 

A strange change came over Jim’s hard features. 
It was not so much that they softened, for there was 
no visible softening, but there crept into them a look 


CARINA 


353 

of the most intense pain. It was as if someone had 
suddenly and stealthily stabbed him with a sharp 
instrument, and though he had bitten back the cry 
that had risen to his lips, he was yet feeling the tor¬ 
ture in every nerve of his body. 

Peter was almost horrified to find that his words 
had at last pierced through that armor of ice and 
iron which encircled and guarded his father’s heart. 
It was terrible to watch that face he had both loved 
and feared, as it responded to the agony his own 
words had produced. He waited for a moment, half 
expecting that Jim would rise in sudden violence of 
reprisal and use physical force to turn him out of 
the room. He was still far too strong a man not 
to be able easily to overwhelm his son. But Peter 
had never feared him less than he did at that moment. 
It was like seeing a statue come to life, awakening 
to consciousness not of joy as in the old fable, but 
of acute and even terrible pain. A person suddenly 
awakening from anaesthesia in the midst of some 
hideous surgical operation would have looked, he 
thought, just as his father had looked then. 

It wasn’t fair to watch him now . . . Peter 

slipped quietly out of the room, half afraid of the 
result of his words. 

When Peter had gone out of the room Jim felt 
alone, as he had never been alone before. The gulf 
just revealed in all its depth and darkness, between 
himself and his son, was too wide to admit of future 
approach. Peter had drifted away from him, and 
Carina stood eternally between them, a shadowy but 
powerful figure. Powerful . . . Yes, he used 

the word advisedly. It had nothing to do with her 
physique, which was more fragile than strong-look¬ 
ing, nor with her keen fiery intellect, her decisive 
character and personality. It was a spiritual power 


354 


CARINA 


that she derived only and wholly from the faith that 
was hers—“the most perfect thing about her,” as 
Peter had just said. Vested in her that faith was 
like a steady glowing flame that seemed to flood her 
with light and warmth. The fault had been his, to 
admit that powerful element to his own house. How 
could he have expected a young boy like Peter to 
resist that so potent force ? He had himself at 
times felt the necessity of consciously resisting it, 
although he was aware of danger, and on his guard 
against it. Like so many of his countrymen, inherit¬ 
ing the prejudices, the calumnies, the false repre¬ 
sentations of upward of three hundred years, he had 
been taught to regard the Catholic Church as a 
sinister and ambiguous force. He did not go so far 
as a certain Anglican divine who assured his simple 
hearers that its activities were more political than 
religious, and that Christianity was only incidental 
to it! But from one source or another, and especial¬ 
ly from history taught always from the Protestant 
standpoint, he had acquired a number of theories 
and supposed facts against the Church into the truth 
of which he had never troubled to inquire. He was 
not a reader, he was in no sense a scholar ; he was 
perhaps more ready than most men to accept a conven¬ 
tional point of view. But even he had had to remind 
himself of those early-inculcated prejudices when he 
had come into actual contact with the Catholic Church 
through Carina. It was something that had gone 
most deeply to the making of her, and he was bound 
to admit that stripped of it and its spiritual influence 
she might have been a very different woman. No 
wonder she had made that instant and permanent 
appeal to Peter. Jim told himself now that he ought 
to have trampled on his love for her, from the first 
moment he had discovered that she was a Catholic. 
He ought never wilfully to have seen again this 


CARINA 


355 

strange, enigmatic, fascinating creature whom he had 
loved and whom he still loved to his own hurt. 

It had been very quiet at Linfold without her, 
quiet and very sad. It was especially so when Peter 
was away. Sophia Mallory, actuated by a stern sense 
of duty, came over sometimes to stay with him for 
a few days, but they were not congenial to each other, 
and as he never mentioned Carina’s name to her she 
could learn nothing. He rather dreaded her visits, 
but he clung to Peter, and had missed Carina less 
when the boy was with him. 

And during the past year Peter had never ven¬ 
tured to speak to him as he had done to-night, had 
never once dared to make a direct appeal on 
Carina’s behalf. What had urged him to do so now, 
with such strange persistence, almost as if he had 
had some definite presentiment of approaching ca¬ 
lamity? There had been a stern expression in the 
boy’s eyes as he denounced his father’s treatment of 
Carina. Jim had passed from anger to a dumb, 
paralyzed bewilderment, as if indeed it had been less 
Peter who was speaking than his own conscience sud¬ 
denly become articulate in order to arraign him. 

It was the first time he had been compelled to 
envisage the fact that perhaps it was he who was 
wrong in his estimate of the Catholic Church. Had 
he, in his ignorance, his intolerance, his anger, been 
fighting against Godf As that fragment of text 
recurred to him, he could not but believe that those 
very words must have been in Peter’s mind just now, 
although from some motive possibly of filial delicacy 
he had not ventured to utter them. 

But they seemed to stare Jim in the face now. He 
could not get away from them. And they widened 
immeasurably the gulf between him and his son. 


CHAPTER XXXVI 


J IM and Peter possessed still a common meeting- 
ground in their love of sport; thus while the 
spiritual gulf between them had never been so wide, 
they were still outwardly good friends with many 
similar interests that gave energy to their home life, 
and made it even agreeable and pleasant 

Only a few days after that conversation they 
motored together to the meet which was held that 
day at Chiltern Towers. It was one of the most 
important meets of the whole season, and neither of 
them would have cared to miss it. Jim, who was so 
little seen in ordinary society now, still hunted and 
shot with unabated vigor, and he was glad that Peter 
continued to share these tastes. He was proud of 
his son and as they started forth that morning, he 
noted with a fresh appreciation the boy’s handsome 
eager face, his clean length of limb, his strong-look¬ 
ing nervous hands. Intellectually, as his father was 
not slow to perceive, Peter far surpassed him in bril¬ 
liancy, while in games and sports he was at least 
his equal. In fact, Mallory was bound to acknowl¬ 
edge that, except in that one fatal deviation from 
the normal, Peter was all that the most fastidious 
father could wish his son to be. 

And so far the irrevocable step had not been 
taken. Peter’s promise held good until the summer, 
and there was still hope that before then he might 
carefully reconsider his decision. 

_ The day was sharp and chill, but there was no 
hint of frost. There was little wind, and southward 
the sea was merged in a misty pale sky. The russet- 

356 


CARINA 


357 


colored woods of Linfold Glen lay like a shadow 
in the sloping fold of the Downs. 

Mallory could never traverse that particular bit 
of. road without thinking of Carina. They had 
driven along it together on the day when he had 
asked her to be his wife, and again on the clear 
starry night of Christmas Eve on their way to Mid¬ 
night Mass at Lintown. She had always loved that 
view of the Downs and the sea. . . . 

They motored quickly to Chiltern Towers, where 
they met the groom with their hunters. But Mallory 
had not gone very far that morning when his horse 
—a favorite one—developed lameness, and he was 
forced to relinquish the day’s sport and return home. 
Peter was almost as disappointed as his father, and 
even begged him to ride his mount instead. But Jim 
shook his head, smiling a little ruefully. 

“He’s all very well for you, Peter, but he’s not 
up to my weight!” 

He stopped for a few minutes at the Towers on 
his way home, to greet Lady Chiltern and Blanche, 
and to inquire for Lord Chiltern, who was growing 
rapidly worse. 

“My horse went lame—I had to give up. And 
it’s sure to be a ripping day with no end of scent. 
However, Peter’ll enjoy it—that’s one comfort,” 
said Jim, to the mother and daughter who had both 
come in to receive him. 

“Dear Peter—how handsome he’s looking! I sup¬ 
pose he’ll be leaving Woolwich soon?” said Lady 
Chiltern. 

“In the summer,” said Mallory. “He’s nearly 
nineteen now.” 

His haggard rather melancholy appearance was 
not lost upon Lady Chiltern. She knew nothing of 
the rights of the case, for Jim was reticent and never 
mentioned his wife, but there was endless gossip— 



358 


CARINA 


of a not too charitable kind—about them, in the 
neighborhood of Linfold. Most people, remember¬ 
ing Iris, were rather ready to blame Jim for this 
second matrimonial collapse. Others inclined to the 
opinion that Carina was an ambitious woman who 
had married a man much older than herself on ac¬ 
count of his money, and therefore clearly deserved 
all that she had got. The master of Linfold re¬ 
mained wrapped in an obstinate silence. He had 
returned from Rome last winter without his wife 
and little girl, and there seemed 'at present no pros¬ 
pect of their ever coming back home. Malice hinted 
that there must be “something” at the back of it 
all. Something perhaps that Jim was too proud to 
divulge. Whatever the truth, there was no doubt 
that he looked a singularly unhappy man, who had 
aged very much in the past year. 

As he rose to go he remarked: 

“Peter said something about looking in on his 
way home if he wasn’t too late. Please get him off 
in good time if he does—” 

“Oh, we shall be so glad to see him,” said Lady 
Chiltern; “he’s quite deserted us lately, hasn’t he, 
Blanche?” She turned to her daughter, who assented 
in her grave almost melancholy manner. 

Whenever she saw Jim, Blanche thought: “I could 
have made him happy . . . How could he sup¬ 
pose that little slip of a girl could care for him?” 
She still cherished these secret resentful thoughts 
against the woman who had stepped in so lightly and 
won the prize she herself had fruitlessly striven for. 
Sometimes it was almost a kind of miserable relief 
to her to know that the marriage had turned out so 
badly, and after only three years, too. 

She said good-bye to Jim when he rose to go, and 
then went to the window to watch him drive away 
in his car. She thought he looked more interesting 


CARINA 


359 


than ever, with his silvery hair, his grief-worn face. 
It was terrible to think of his loneliness at Linfold 
when Peter wasn’t there. And he was becoming 
more and more of a hermit, refusing all invitations 
to luncheon or tea. 

“Dear me,” said Lady Chiltern in a tone of vexa* 
tion, “here’s Carina’s new book lying on the table. 
I do 'hope he didn’t see it. I’ve often asked you, 
my dear, not to leave her books about!” 

Blanche looked round. “I was reading it when 
he came in,” she said; “I would have hidden it if I’d 
thought of it. It’s odd of her, isn’t it, to go on writ¬ 
ing books, knowing how much he dislikes it?” 

“Carina knows her own business best,” said Lady 
Chiltern briskly. “But that’s no reason why you 
should leave her books about when I’ve repeatedly 
asked you not to. I only hope he didn’t notice it.” 

“I daresay he didn’t,” said Blanche; “he’s very 
unobservant.” 

She sighed. She wished Jim would come and talk 
to her about Carina, and tell her all he was feeling 
and suffering. She had so much compassion and 
sympathy to offer him. But he was always like that 
When he came—abrupt, a trifle haughty, as if he 
feared any intimate approach or questioning . . . 

even from old friends. 

“Poor Blanche, she’s losing all her looks,” said 
Jim aloud to himself as he drove away. He had far 
too little conceit to suppose that she had ever been 
in love with him or wished to marry him. 

The day was long, spent in solitude without Peter, 
and Jim contrived to invent some business which 
should take him into Lintown that afternoon. He 
did not return to Linfold until tea-time. Peter had 
not come in, but he had hardlv expected to find him, 
knowing of his intention to call at the Towers on his 
way home. 


360 


CARINA 


Remembering his old friendship with Blanche be¬ 
fore 'the coming of Carina, he wondered if Peter 
still confided in her. Whether she was aware of his 
spiritual aspirations and difficulties. But no, on 
reflection he thought it unlikely that Peter should 
speak of them. He was naturally reticent and re¬ 
served, and though he had many friends he rarely 
admitted anyone to great intimacy. It showed wis¬ 
dom, and Jim felt that his own sorrows were safe in 
Peter’s hands; he was most unlikely to discuss them 
with anyone. There was comfort in the thought. 
Jim preferred that no details of his disaster should 
be known, nor any hint of his son’s intended rebel¬ 
lion. . . . 

Since their conversation that night—a revealing 
one for them both—Peter had made no further allu¬ 
sion to Carina. He had pleaded no more, after 
that one effort, so full of youthful courage and zeal. 
But he knew his father’s obduracy; he had suffered 
from it nearly all his life. It was a hard, cruel, sig¬ 
nificant thing, and when you came into contact with 
it, it bruised you. His own mother and Carina had 
each in their several ways known it and suffered 
from it. 

Peter was sorry for his father, knowing him now 
to be a most unhappy, bitterly disappointed man. It 
was true that he had marred his own life, but he 
could not be made to see that he, and he alone, was 
at fault. 

When dinner-time approached and Peter had not 
returned, Jim grew restless. He went to the window 
and looked out, but the winter night was very dark, 
and a strong breeze was blowing in from the sea. 
There were no stars, and the sky was quite black 
overhead. Suddenly a thought struck him and he 
went into the hall, took up the receiver, and tele¬ 
phoned to the Towers. He felt a curious and quite 


CARINA 


361 

unnatural anxiety. It was nearly half past seven; 
Peter ought to have been back at least an hour ago. 
Unless, of course, hounds had run far in the op¬ 
posite direction . . . He was annoyed with him¬ 

self, however, for feeling 'anxious. The fact was, 
his nerves were going to pieces—he had been through 
more than any man could usefully stand. . . . 

“Is that Lady Chiltern speaking? Oh, Blanche, is 
that you? It’s Jim Mallory speaking ... I 
want to know if Peter’s there . . . Not there? 

You haven’t seen him? You’re sure he didn’t look 
in on his way home ? Never mind—thanks very much 
—I made sure he was with you—” 

He hung up the receiver. Presently across the 
silence he heard the distant rumble of a motor-car. 
The sound came nearer. Yes, it must be approach¬ 
ing the house. He wondered who it could be—it 
was an unusual hour for visitors to come, in the win¬ 
ter . . . Nervous and apprehensive he went into 

the hall. Almost immediately he heard a violent ring 
at the bell. Saunders, always prompt in the matter 
of answering bells, came quickly from the back pre¬ 
mises and opened the door. A blast of cold air came 
in, chilling Jim. He saw Dr. Western—the local 
practitioner—step briskly into the hall. 

“Oh, good-evening, Mr. Mallory—I’m sorry to 
say your son’s had a bit of a spill. We’ve brought 
him back in my car. They took him to the cottage 
hospital at Cross End first, but be fretted so to get 
home.” 

Mallory pushed past the doctor without replying. 
His face was livid, as if he had received a physical 
blow upon the heart. He was outside on the step 
just in time to see two men lifting the motionless body 
of Peter from the car. He caught a glimpse of a 
white face, of dark matted hair lying damp above the 
brow. Western’s reassuring tones had not in the 


362 


CARINA 


least deceived him. He felt what the Italians call 
a tightening of the heart. Peter ... his son 
. . . Peter. . . . 

“Is he . . . ? Can you take him up to his 
room?” Jim could hardly articulate. 

“Well, it would be better if you could put a bed 
for him on the ground floor,” was Dr. Western’s 
reply. 

1 he ambulance litter was carried into the big 
dining-room, now so seldom used, and placed on 
the table. Mallory stood there, close to his son. 
In the sharp glare of the electric light he noticed the 
shrunken face, the extraordinary pallor. Suddenly 
the mouth twiched, and the blue eyes opened. 

“Dad!” he said. 

Mallory stepped nearer and took the limp hand 
that lay there in 'his own. The lump in his throat 
threatened to choke him. 

“Ask them all to clear out—” said Peter. 

Jim turned for a moment to the doctor. 

“Would you mind telling Saunders to fetch Par¬ 
kinson, please? You can give her the orders better 
than I can. And he wants to be alone with me.” 

Dr. Western and the two men went out of the 
room, and the father and son were left alone. 

“It’s my back—” said Peter—“I’m done for, 
Dad. They won’t tell me so, but I know. I expect 
one always knows.” 

His eyes were very bright, and when he had 
finished speaking he compressed his lips as if he 
were trying to bite back the pain. 

# Oh, no, Peter—please God, you’re wrong. The 
pain makes you feel like that—you’ll be all right 
soon. Mallory’s voice sounded strangely even to 
his own ears. He was almost as pale as his son. It 
was as if the physical shock and suffering had com- 


CARINA 363 

municated themselves to his own sound and healthy 
body. 

“I . . . I want you to do something for me, 

Dad,” said Peter. 

His strength seemed to be diminishing; his voice 
was more feeble, the effort to speak, greater. 

“Anything in the world, my dear boy . . . 

Anything in my power . . .” 

“Then will you telephone to Father Pemberton 
at Lintown? The Catholic priest. Ask him to look 
sharp and come . . .” 

Mallory hesitated. That was the last request he 
had expected his son to make. 

“Tell him—please—not to lose any time . . .” 

The voice was weaker, but it held an intensified urg¬ 
ency. 

“You’re sure you wish for this, Peter?” said Mal¬ 
lory, his eyes full of pain. 

“Please, please , Dad. I only waited to please you 
—but now I can’t wait any more. . . 

Mallory touched with lightest pressure that limp 
inert hand. 

“I’ll telephone at once,” he whispered, stooping 
closer to make sure that Peter should hear him. 

He went out of the room. His pulses were beat¬ 
ing like hammers in his temples. He felt like one 
moving in an appalling nightmare. In the hall he 
encountered Dr. Western. 

“He thinks he’s dying,” he blurted out, his voice 
breaking on a dreadful sob. 

“Well, I’m afraid he’s pretty bad, Mr. .Mallory. 
We’ll send for Derrick with your permission—he’s 
done wonders in these cases.” 

“Do you know how it happened?” 

“His horse came down at a very high fence, and 

rolled on him.” 

Mallory went to the telephone, for the second 


CARINA 


364 

time that evening. But he did not touch it for a 
moment. He stood looking at it in a queer dazed 
way, almost as if it were a sentient thing, possessing 
formidable powers. 

Peter was, if not actually dying, at least in grave 
danger of death. On the physical plane there was 
nothing Mallory would have withheld from his son 
to ease his suffering. He would have poured out 
his great wealth, eagerly and generously to the utter¬ 
most farthing, to secure him a moment’s relief. But 
Peter had asked only for Father Pemberton. Mal¬ 
lory was aware even then of his own extreme dis¬ 
taste for the task thus thrust upon him. He shrank 
from it. Even across his grief and anguish some¬ 
thing within him rebelled fiercely. 

These thoughts hardly occupied a second of time. 
Peter . . . He couldn’t forget the look of sick 

eagerness in those suffering eyes—the desperate urg¬ 
ency of the voice—the fear of being denied this 
thing that was so visible in his face. 

Mallory took up the receiver. There was a little 
delay before he could get the right number, and while 
he was waiting he became suddenly aware how pas¬ 
sionately anxious he himself was to speak to the 
priest and entreat him to come. He was actually 
sharing in his son’s suspense. The knowledge 
seemed to diminish his own scruples. He felt that 
he could not deny anything to Peter now. He was 
grievously hurt; he seemed to have earned by his 
peculiar sufferings, the right to have Whatever he 
chose to ask for. . . 

“Is that Father Pemberton? It’s Mallory speak¬ 
ing—Mallory of Linfold Park. I want you to take 
a motor and come over here as soon as possible. My 
son’s met with a bad accident—he may be dying— 
he has asked for you . . . He’s wanted for a 



CARINA 365 

long time to be a Catholic, but I wouldn’t let him. 
Cart you come? At once? Thank you. . . .” 

His voice was hard, firm and controlled. But 
when he hung up the receiver a sob of relief escaped 
him. Peter must have what he wanted—all that he 
wanted . . . Even this. . . 

It came into his mind then to be thankful that this 
hadn’t happened in Iris’s lifetime. She had always 
so feared and dreaded that some accident of the kind 
should happen to Peter. She used to cry when he 
went off to the meet, a proud, upright little figure 
riding beside his father. Jim had laughed, even 
jeered, at her fears a hundred times; sometimes he 
had even rebuked her sternly, with a touch of anger. 
And now . . . Peter was lying in that room 

across the hall, all the fine and beautiful young 
strength and power crushed out of him. The tears 
gathered thickly in his eyes. Peter was the thing dear¬ 
est to him, closest to his heart . . . He couldn’t 

think of Carina now; his thoughts were all for Peter. 
Such a good dutiful son, in all but the one thing . . . 
The one thing he had denied him. But he was going 
to give it to him now. Perhaps it would be his very 
last gift to Peter. It seemed to Jim then as if some 
Power outside himself, stronger than himself, urgent, 
insistent, imperative, were controlling him. Once 
or twice Carina had made him conscious of that 
power, although he had fiercely and violently rebelled 
against it. And now he had the half-superstitious 
feeling that he was to be made to pay for that rebel¬ 
lion, for his cruel banishing of Carina, for the im¬ 
pediments he had placed in his son’s path. 

In the vastness of the ruin and desolation that 
now surrounded him, he was conscious of a retribu¬ 
tive quality. As if he, with puny strength, had 
indeed been fighting against God . . . There 

was something terrible to Mallory in this thought, 


366 


CARINA 


as if he had found himself suddenly alone, and con¬ 
fronted by an overwhelming elemental force. 

They were busy, when he returned to the dining¬ 
room, in making the necessary preparations. A bed 
had been brought down, and Peter was now lying 
upon it. The household had worked with the utmost 
celerity. There was not one of them who would not 
have cut him or her self in four pieces, for Peter. 

His eyes were closed now, the dark lashes lying 
like a shadow along his cheek. The face still had 
that curiously pale and shrunken aspect. 

Dr. Western approached Mallory as he entered 
the room. 

“I don’t know what you said to him, Mr. Mallory, 
but it seems to have had a wonderful effect upon him. 
He was so distressed and uneasy before, as if he had 
something on his mind. And now he’s quiet and calm. 
Several times on the way here he asked if we were 
nearly at Linfold—he seemed so very anxious to say 
something to you.” 

“He wished to see a priest. I’ve telephoned to 
Father Pemberton to come over from Lintown at 
once.” 

A faint suggestion of astonishment showed in the 
doctor’s face. Rumor had been rife in the neighbor¬ 
hood that the quarrel between Mallory and his 
young wife, resulting in an actual separation that had 
now lasted nearly a year, had sprung from religious 
differences. Mrs. Mallory was a devout Catholic, 
and Mallory’s prejudices against her Faith were 
very strong. His second marriage had perhaps 
caused more surprise than the ill-success that had 
attended it. 

“Dad . . The faint voice from the bed 

only just reached him. But Mallory caught the 
word and hurried toward his son. While he felt a 
terrible, heart-breaking conviction that the young life 


CARINA 


367 

was ebbing rapidly and surely away, he longed to 
hold him back from death, by sheer physical force, 
until Father Pemberton should come. Surely, he 
would be permitted thus far to retrieve the past. . . . 

“I’ve telephoned to Father Pemberton,” he said, 
speaking very distinctly; “he’s promised to come at 
once—he’ll be here soon. Try to keep very quiet 
till he comes. . . .” 

Mallory’s tone was reassuring; it seemed to soothe 
Peter. For himself Jim could not understand his 
own passionate desire that the priest should arrive 
in time. Was it only because he desired to make 
amends for his own past sternness, and give Peter 
what he had so long withheld from him? But he 
knew dimly that it would be his culminating punish¬ 
ment if Peter should die before Father Pemberton 
came. 

Peter gave the faint ghost of a smile. 

“Thanks most awfully, Dad . . .” he mur¬ 

mured. 

His face twitched slightly with pain, but in a mo¬ 
ment the lips were as tightly# compressed as ever. 
His courage was wonderful. 

Presently he looked up again and said: 

“Dad, I wish Carina were here. . . .” 

Mallory’s lips framed the words: “I wish to God 
she were! ...” 

He felt as if a curtain had been dragged aside, 
and that a strange search-light were casting an illum¬ 
ination, vivid and blinding, upon his actions of the 
past year. His cruelty to Carina . . . His 

cruelty to Peter . . . They were actions he had 

justified to himself a hundred times daily. But now, 
with a remorse that was new to him, he beheld not 
only their futility to hinder the work of God and 
the invincible progress of His Church, but their own 
immense, fruitful, and desolating harvest. He could 


CARINA 


368 

never repair the evil he had done. And he saw now 
almost as it were in a vision, the significant power 
and strength of the Catholic Church. He felt as if 
in the conflict against it, he had been beaten to the 
earth. ... 

“Peter . . . my darling boy . . . Peter 

• • • • 

The words, like a cry of anguish, seemed to escape 
from him unawares. 

Peter lifted 'his eyelids. 

“You mustn’t bother about me, Dad. You’ve got 
Carina and Tony.” 

There was a long silence. The doctor left the 
room and telephoned to Lint own for a nurse to 
come at once. He dictated an order for several 
things she must bring with her, enumerating them in 
clear concise tones. 

Mallory, left alone with his son, was consumed 
with suspense. An inward impatience tore his heart. 
He wanted to make amends to Peter, but he had a 
strange fear that even this would be denied him. 
He wasn’t worthy to give him that last great gift, 
so long refused, so long withheld. He had a morbid 
fear that Peter would die, frustrated, before his eyes. 
An hour passed, and then the sounds of a motor-car 
were heard coming up the drive. Mallory rose 
quietly from his seat and with a slight gesture to Dr. 
Western went into the hall. He opened the door 
himself, and felt the cool caress of the night wind 
blowing against his face. Father Pemberton had 
alighted from the car, and was standing on the door¬ 
step. Something, he knew not what, though dimly 
he guessed what it must be, constrained Jim to drop 
on his knees for a second, and words escaped him: 

“Lord, 1 am not worthy that Thou shouldst come 
under my roof . . T 

The priest gave no sign of greeting, but as he fol- 


CARINA 


369 


lowed Mallory across the hall he uttered some Latin 
words. JLm knew then beyond doubt that he had 
brought the Divine Presence with him to comfort 
and strengthen Peter on his last journey. He was 
to be sustained by the Food for which his young 
starved soul had been perishing. 

Something like a throb of joy vibrated through 
Jim’s heart. He felt then that he was to be allowed 
to help in bringing this ardently desired gift to Peter. 
It was as if Almighty God had accepted his tardy 
contrition. . . . 

Before he opened the door he said to the priest: 

“My boy’s dying—a hunting accident. He wanted 
to be a Catholic last year, and I wouldn’-t let him. 
Do what you can for him, please, do all you 
can. . . .” 

He opened the door. Motioning the doctor to 
withdraw, he approached his son’s bedside. 

“Peter,” he called gently. 

There was no response from the figure on the 
bed. The white face was statue-like in its enigmatic 
calm. Mallory’s heart stood still. Was it too late 
after all? . . . 

“Peter! . . .” he called again, and waited 

in suspense. 

The boy opened his eyes. They were no longer 
bright, a slight film glazed them. 

“Dad ...” 

“Father Pemberton has come, my darling boy.’’ 

Life seemed to flow back into the face; its white 
calm was broken up. 

The priest had placed the pyx containing its preci¬ 
ous Burden on a table, lighting two candles from 
the sick-call case that he had brought with him. The 
holy water for Baptism, the sacred Oils for that last 

anointing, were there also. 

He knew Peter well. In those winter days before 


370 


CARINA 


the sudden and fateful journey to Rome, the boy had 
been coming regularly to him for instruction. He 
signed to xMallory to leave him alone with his son. 

Mallory went out of the room, dazed and con¬ 
fused, but with tears of relief in his eyes. He went 
into his study, shut the door, and fell upon his knees, 
offering prayers of gratitude. In that hour of pas¬ 
sionate emotion, of outward defeat, of grief and 
bereavement too great to be put into words, he could 
acknowledge with every beating of his heart the 
Mercy of Almighty God. Peter had lived long 
enough to see Father Pemberton. He would die as 
he had wished to live, in the arms of the Catholic 
Church. . . . 

How long he remained there, he did not know, 
but he was aroused at last by a knock at the door. 
Then Dr. Western’s voice was heard across the pro¬ 
found silence of the room. 

“Mr. Mallory—will you come back, please? Your 
son is asking for you.” 

From somewhere among the obscure shadows a 
figure rose heavily to its feet. Mallory followed 
him into the dining-room. A faint, sweet, yet per¬ 
vasive, odor accosted him; it was both pleasant and 
unfamiliar. 

The sense of confusion and bewilderment was very 
strong now, and at no point did he seem able to 
come into contact with reality. He was still one of 
the. actors in a strange, strange dream, where things 
which he could not possibly prevent or arrest were 
going irresistibly forward. In the midst of this 
confusion he heard the priest’s voice saying: 

“Your son has made his confession. I have bap¬ 
tized him and received him into the Church. He 
has made his First Communion and had Extreme 
Unction. You will find him wonderfully prepared 


CARINA 


37 1 


and resigned. I am going now to say the prayers 
for the dying.” 

Father Pemberton knelt down and began to recite 
rapidly and monotonously some Latin prayers. Some¬ 
times Peter’s lips moved as if in response. But he 
was aware too of his father’s nearness, for once 
he looked up at him and smiled. 

“Thanks most awfully, Dad. It was very good 
of you. I’m quite ready now . . .” He smiled, 

a little secret smile. 

Mallory could not speak. Reality had touched 
him at last, with the sharpness of a sword’s point. 
He knew that Peter was dying, was leaving him. 
He put his hand on his as if he would have held him 
back. 

“Peter . . .” The word rang through the 

room. It seemed to call the boy back. He opened 
his eyes. 

“Dad . . . you’ll go and tell Carina, won’t 

you ?” 

“Yes, yes, my darling boy . 

“She’ll come home now? . . .” The words 

trailed into silence. 

“Yes . . . yes . . .” 

Peter gave a faint fluttering sigh, and slipped 
away into the Unknown. 

Father Pemberton rose from his knees, sprinkled 
the body with holy water and gave the last Absolu¬ 
tion. The solemn words echoed through the room. 
Then he knelt down and recited aloud the De Pro- 
fundis psalm. 

Mallory stood there watching him. Frorn his sub- 
consciousness half-forgotten words rose to his mind: 
“Fortified by the Rites of Holy Church A Those 
tremendous, fortifying, sanctifying Rites that had 


372 


CARINA 


enabled Peter to say with a quiet and beautiful con¬ 
fidence: Vm quite ready now. . . • 

He fell on his knees. 

‘‘Peter— my son! my son! . . 


CHAPTER XXXVII 


TT WAS to Lady Murray that Jim sent the tele- 
4 gram announcing his son’s death from an ac¬ 
cident. The funeral was fixed for the 27th of Dec¬ 
ember. He added, “Wait letters,” as if he feared 
they might hasten home so as to be in time for it. 
But as a matter of fact the telegram was delayed, 
and did not reach Lady Murray till after Christ¬ 
mas. 

Of course she must show it to Carina at once. 
Jim said nothing of future plans, his Wait letters 
was vague. Nevertheless, the situation created within 
her a very real anxiety. The terrible shock of his 
son’s death might not perhaps change Jim’s attitude 
toward his wdfe, but it might conceivably evoke 
within him a desire to obtain possession of one or 
both of his children. His conduct throughout the 
past year had been so extraordinary, so even cruel, 
that Lady Murray was scarcely to be blamed if she 
now regarded him as a man who would go all lengths 
to achieve a desired end. 

She went into Carina’s room. It was a golden 
December day, and the skies were almost as blue as 
in summer. The plane trees along the Tiber were 
still thickly covered with their large yellow leaves. 
The river was faintly turquoise-colored; it slipped 
noiselessly far below the window with only the white 
width of the road between. The houses of Rome 
were transformed into golden palaces by the clear 
sunlight—the same houses that in wet weather often 
look as sordid as overgrown hovels. It was a char¬ 
acteristic scene with the domes, the towers, the ring- 

373 


9 


374 


CARINA 


ing bells, the river flowing under its frequent bridges, 
Monte Soratte lay like a grey shadow in the grey 
plain of the Campagna. Near at hand the dark 
pines on the Pincio were etched against the sky like 
a delicate dark smudge. Over there to the North 
the low green hills of Parioli were dotted with white 
villas. 

“I’ve had a telegram, dear,” said Lady Murray, 
going up to her niece who was playing with Tony 
on the floor, while the slumbering Innocent lay in 
his cradle near at hand. 

Carina spent most of her time with the children. 
Since Innocent’s birth she had not written a line. 
That burst of energy which had produced Gifts and 
Sacrifices had burnt down to dead ashes. It had been 
tremendous while it lasted, but it had sapped her 
strength pitifully. Still, the sale of the book had 
relieved her from any financial anxiety, although, as 
Lady Murray had often pointed out, there had never 
been any need for that particular bogey to frighten 
her. But neither from her husband nor from her 
aunt would Carina accept anything either for herself 
or her children. 

“Who’s it from?” said Carina. Her careless in¬ 
attention was swiftly checked by one glance at her 
aunt’s face. She sprang to her feet. “Why, what’s 
the matter, dear Aunt Nora? Has anvthinu hap¬ 
pened to Jim?” 

.“No, no it isn’t Jim—it’s poor darling Peter,” 
said Lady Murray, soothingly. 

Carina took the telegram from her aunt’s hand 
and read it. Jim gave no details, just the mere out¬ 
line of what had befallen him. She wondered a little 
why he had troubled to send them word. 

“Oh, I wish I’d been there—I wish I could have 
helped him ... I wonder how it happened.” 


CARINA 


375 

“We ought to get his letter very soon. This has 
taken three days to come.” 

For many months Carina had not wept, and it 
had seemed to her sometimes that her tears were all 
dried up. *But now they flowed freely. She was 
thinking of Peter as she had last seen him, splendid¬ 
ly tall and handsome, full of life and vitality, a 
young, vivid, almost romantic figure. She remem¬ 
bered his words too, spoken as it were from the most 
profound depths of his heart: Pray that I may 
always feel the same courage about it as I do now — 
that I may always have the same faith. 

And she had not failed to pray for him that he 
might never lose that high burning courage. . . . 

She comforted herself, too, with the thought that 
even if he had not become a Catholic before his 
death, he had at least had the “baptism of desire,” 
which in her mercy the Church accepts. . . . 

“It will break Jim’s heart,” she said, presently. 

“Yes,” said Lady Murray. 

Jim’s hard heart was softness itself where this son 
of his had been concerned. His devotion to Peter 
had not always been a prudent one. It had often 
led him into harsh methods with the boy if he fell 
ever so slightly below the standard of what he wished 
and expected his son to be. His childish faults had 
been punished as severely as if they had been real 
offences. Jim had always been afraid of spoiling 
him, of being too soft. The result was that he had 
often erred on the side of severity, alienating Peter 
from him. And now he had lost this dearly-loved 
son, the boy of his heart, the first-born, the child of 
the woman for whom he had never truly cared. 
Would these children of Carina’s ever make up to 
him for this desolating loss? It was idle to specu¬ 
late, for since the breach between Carina and her 
husband, Lady Murray 'had felt she must always 


37 ^ 


CARINA 


have held a completely false estimate of Jim’s char¬ 
acter, and that she could never really have known 
him at all. He had simply wrecked Carina’s life. 
She tried to be sorry for him now, because he had 
undoubtedly suffered the maximum of punishment. 
But she could not forgive him for his unjustifiable 
treatment of her niece. 

Carina put on her hat and coat and announced her 
intention of going out. 

“I shan’t be gone long, and I hope Innocent won’t 
wake. And Tony will be a very good girl, won’t she, 
if I leave her with Aunt Nora?” 

She stooped down and kissed Tony, who assured 
her of the excellence of her intentions, and then left 
them with Lady Murray. She was gone about half 
an hour, and her aunt divined that she was praying 
for Peter. In the sadness of her present life she 
prayed far more frequently and regularly than Lady 
Murray could ever remember her doing as a girl. 

During her absence another telegram arrived from 
Jim in which he announced his intention of coming 
to Rome immediately—he hoped to arrive on the 
last night of the old year. This piece of news per¬ 
turbed Lady Murray almost more than that of the 
first telegram. She could not tell in what sort of 
mood, penitent or the reverse, he now proposed to 
come to Rome. But he must have one of two mo¬ 
tives in his mind. One was to effect a reconciliation 
with Carina and beseech her to return home; the 
other was to deprive her of Tony. She wondered 
if he had ever learned of the birth of Innocent. 
Carina had endeavored to keep it a dose secret; she 
was such a recluse now, that she saw hardly anything 
of her old friends in Rome. The baby had also been 
born at a time when most of the English colony were 
absent from the city. But if Jim came now, he would 
learn that he had a son. Fhe possibility of his de- 


CARINA 


377 

priving Carina of both her children was an unthink¬ 
able one even for Jim Mallory. 

Sorrow might have softened him, but on the other 
hand sorrow sometimes has been known to harden a 
self-willed indomitable character, and it was more 
than likely his present grief would have the latter 
effect upon Mallory. It was an anxious moment. In 
a few days he would be with them. She wondered 
how Carina would feel about it. 

Carina came in just before lunch. She was calm, 
but her face still bore traces of tears. 

“I’ve asked for a Mass to be said for Peter 
to-morrow morning, at half past seven. Will you 
come too, darling Aunt Nora?” 

“Yes, of course I will, my dear,” said Lady Mur¬ 
ray. 

Carina went into her room to take off her hat. 
When she came back, Lady Murray said hesitating- 

ly: 

“I’ve had another telegram from Jim. You’d 
better read it. He is coming here very soon—” 

Carina grew very pale. “Coming?” she repeated. 

“Yes—he’s starting at once. He’ll be here on the 
3 ls t.” 

Carina’s heart sank like a stone. “He’s coming 
to take Tony away from me,” she thought. But she 
did not utter it aloud. She went up to the child and 
took her on her knee. Tony was an affectionate little 
creature, greedy of caresses, disliking sometimes, too, 
that her mother’s kisses should on occasion be 
diverted to Innocent. Especially when he cried and 
screamed, and appeared to his little sister to be very 
naughty indeed. When she herself shrieked, her 
mother would say, “No, I can’t kiss you till you’re 
quite good,” but this discipline was not extended to 
Innocent, who strangely enough seemed to be kissed 
the more when he screamed most violently. 




378 


CARINA 


“Of course you’ll receive him?” said Lady Mur* 
ray, with a suspicion of dryness in her tone. 

Carina said listlessly: “He’s got a right to come. 
I’m his wife. I hope he won’t make it too difficult.” 

“I think it may comfort him very much to learn 
that he has a son,” observed Lady Murray. 

Carina shook her head. “Nothing can ever com¬ 
fort him for the loss of Peter. He was the one thing 
he cared for in the world.” 

“Once,” said Lady Murray, “he put you before 
Peter.” 

“Only for a very little while—when he thought 
he was in love with.me. But directly Peter wanted 
to become a Catholic, I knew the difference. Only 
Peter counted then. I didn’t grudge it—I loved him 
so much that I perfectly understood. Peter was al¬ 
most as dear to me as my own children. It was often 
difficult to take Jim’s part when they squabbled. I 
always wanted to take Peter’s. Not because he was 

always in the right, but because I cared so much for 
him.” 

When she thought of the manner of Jim’s going, 
all her fears rushed back afresh to her heart. She 
could see him now, with his stern handsome face as 
he went out of her presence, as she thought, forever. 
She had known then that his love for her was dead. 
It had been a brief passion, violent and tempestuous 
while it lasted, but perhaps never very genuine. And 

he had broken her heart, just as surely as he had 
broken Iris’s. 

“Why do you think he’s coming, Aunt Nora?” 
she asked. 

“To see you, I should imagine,” said Lady Mur¬ 
ray, who would not have voiced her own fears for 
the world.. It was no good harassing Carina with 
dreadful little possibilities before there was any 
need. J 


CARINA 


379 


“Only that?” Mrs. Mallory’s voice was dubious. 

“What other reason could he have?” 

“I was wondering. . . .” 

_ “Carina, I hope you’ll take my advice and be very 
kind to him, and sympathetic. So much may depend 
upon the manner in which you receive him. If he 
wants forgiveness, forgive him. He must be suf¬ 
fering, and the fact that he’s turned to you in the 
midst of his grief, at least says something. Of course 
I know he’s behaved atrociously, unpardonably, but 
he’s been heavily punished.” 

It seemed to her then that the beautiful pale face 
hardened a little. But Carina said nothing. Joy 
and fear and grief were struggling within her for 
the mastery. Jim was coming back to her, as it were 
across his son’s grave. If Peter had been alive, their 
meeting must surely have been one of perfect joy. 

Then fear, one of the ugliest and most fierce and 
debasing of emotions, drove out joy and sorrow. 
Jim was coming to take Tony from her. He would 
not live, childless and alone, in that great house. He 
would say too that he had a right to his child. Yes, 
she was afraid of Jim in his sorrow. He might be 
as dangerous as a wounded beast and almost as ir¬ 
responsible. This grief of his must have cut him to 
the heart. He had been passionately fond and proud 
of Peter. So many of his highest hopes were bound 
up in the boy. ' Yes, she could picture him a man 
stricken to the heart by the loss of what he held most 
dear. She shared his grief, for Peter had been very 
dear to her, and next to Jim, he had been almost 
closest to her in the intimate way of friendship. 

For the next few days Carina was ill at ease, and 
in a state of tremulous, ill-suppressed excitement. 
Tony might scream and shriek with all the power 
of her strong young lungs; she received nothing but 
caresses, and was never once told that she was 


CARINA 


380 

naughty. She enjoyed the same immunity from ten¬ 
der discipline as did the plump and pampered 
Innocent. Carina hardly permitted the children to 
be out of her sight. 

She wondered sometimes if Jim would find her 
much altered, or whether he now cared too little to 
notice any such change. She examined 'herself in the 
mirror, and decided that she now looked quite her 
real age, which was twenty-nine. She was thinner 
of course, and she was very pale, and her eyes were 
more sunken than they used to be. She didn’t sleep 
well, and then though she had made a quick recovery, 
she had never felt quite so strong since the birth of 
Innocent. And what would Jim say to his new little 
son? Perhaps he would blame her bitterly for hav¬ 
ing kept the event such a complete secret from him. 
She could adduce a variety of reasons, but could she 
ever venture to tell him the true one, that lay so 
deep-rooted in her own fear? . . . Innocent 

was a beautiful baby of not quite four months. He 
was fair, but he had blue eyes with dark lashes that 
were very like Peter’s. She wondered if Jim would 
notice the likeness to Peter, and whether it would 
please him. . . . 

But through all her speculations Carina never per¬ 
mitted herself to dwell on the hope that Jim was 
coming back to her in a softened mood, desiring a 
reconciliation. That prospect was far too much like 
a lovely flattering dream. No, she had disappointed 
him, disillusioned him; he had even accused her of 
causing an estrangement between himself and Peter. 
Jim’s love for her was dead, and nothing could kindle 
those grey burnt-out ashes to flame. When she re¬ 
membered this, she was half-ashamed of the wild 
ungovernable joy that possessed her at the thought 
of once more finding herself face to face svith Jim, 
looking at him, listening to his voice, observing his 


CARINA 


38 x 


strong athletic movements still so full of the grace of 
youth. At such times she was almost like a young 
girl, awaiting the arrival of a long-absent and be¬ 
trothed lover. She was afraid of her own joy . . , 


CHAPTER XXXVIII 


J IM had evidently reconsidered his intention of 
writing, for after the second telegram no further 
news was received from him. It was easy enough 
to understand—this obvious shrinking from putting 
pen to paper to give even brief particulars of the 
tragic catastrophe that had befallen his house. 

Carina was thus without any knowledge of what 
was passing in that bereaved, tormented mind. She 
could picture him isolated, solitary, grief-stricken; 
his soul crying out for the boy who had been so dear 
to him. If, like Sir Austin Feverel, he had tried 
to “pollard ihim by despotism” as Richard of the 
Ordeal had been pollarded, he had at least like that 
other father always had his son’s interests and wel¬ 
fare most sincerely at heart. 

She would have been thankful for even the brief¬ 
est note, to give her some clue as to his state of mind; 
one could read between the lines in the shortest mis¬ 
sive when one knew the writer well. She was once 
more groping in darkness; this time with two help¬ 
less infants clinging, as it were, to her skirts and 
looking to her for guidance. 

The last day of the year—the day that was to 
bring Jim—set in, stormy, and now and then a few 
flakes of snow fell from the clouds that travelled in 
swift battalions across the sky. Last night there had 
been snow on the Alban Hills, and at sunrise Carina 
had seen those pale fields transformed to an ethereal 
rose-color against the fiery redness of the dawn. The 
Tiber was running high, fed by rain-filled mountain 
streams; on its broad bosom there floated a heap of 


CARINA 


383 


debris mingled with a yeasty foam. One could hear 
the sound of its fierce waters, pouring under the 
bridges. 

All day Carina was restless and betrayed it; for 
the moment her cool brave composure was gone. 
Lady Murray observed this, but made no comment. 
It was a terribly difficult position for the poor darl¬ 
ing child, she told herself, this not knowing whether 
your husband was returning to you after a whole 
year’s absence, as a friend or as an enemy. Carina 
had had a great deal to try her nerves, and a less 
courageous woman might well have sunk under the 
ordeal imposed upon her. No one could help her. 
Lady Murray was determined not to witness the 
meeting, holding it would be cruel to treat Jim as a 
supposititious enemy and come to the support of Car¬ 
ina. Besides, in any case it would surely be a pain¬ 
ful moment for them both. 

Her own anger against Jim had abated; one could 
never be very indignant with anyone in such deep 
sorrow. She had to remind herself that he had ex¬ 
posed her niece to the most malicious of gossip and 
had cruelly wronged her who was most innocent of 
offence, in order to feel the least touch of enmity 
toward him. But Whether Carina was prepared to 
overlook the past, to forgive him freely and suffer 
him to take her back to Linfold and start life afresh 
there, with all this dreadful past year between them, 
was another matter. Lady Murray of course desired 
this “happy ending.” She tried to sum up points 
in Jim’s favor, making a mental list of them, telling 
herself that he had been an excellent husband up till 
the time of the estrangement, and whatever people 
might now say or think, he had certainly once been 
most devotedly and even desperately in love with 
his wife. No other motive but love could have in- 


3$ 4 


CARINA 


duced him to make what he must have known was 
an unwise, imprudent marriage. 

Toward evening Carina went out for a walk alone 
through the windy, lighted streets. It was pleasant 
to lose oneself in the slow-moving throng that paced 
the Corso at that hour. Carina pursued her way 
scarcely conscious of fatigue or exhaustion, even 
when she had prolonged her walk far beyond its 
usual limits. She wanted, as 'the saying goes, to 
“kill time.” Nervous apprehensions were growing 
upon her, and they could never be allayed until she 
had come face to face with her husband and learned 
his attitude toward her. She was almost “fey,” like 
a woman on the brink of great happenings. It was 
the prospect of seeing Jim that seemed to imbue her 
body with this new almost fierce vitality, so that she 
was as one treading on air. She could not altogether^ 
quench the sense of exultant happiness that possessed 
her. A word from Jim could quench it—she must 
wait for him to say the word, and plunge her back 
into the nebulous darkness of the past year. . . . 

It was nearly a year since he had gone away, and 
during all that time he had never written to her, had 
not made even any inquiries as to her health and 
welfare through his solicitors. She might have 
died . . . for all he knew or cared. The es¬ 

trangement, so sudden and complete, had promised 
to be permanent. 

She was to learn to-night the effect Peter’s death 
had had upon him. The thought sobered her. 

Night had fallen upon Rome swiftly, with curtains 
of deep blue and purple dusk. The sky was scattered 
thickly with stars, bright, frosty-looking, and marvel¬ 
lously patterned.^ Stars that lit their bright lamps 
so close to the pines that were massed inkily black 
on the Pincian hill. One never saw them close to 
the horizon like that in England, almost as if they 


CARINA 


38 5 

were stooping to whisper their starry secrets to 
Mother Earth. Carina looked up at them as she 
crossed the Piazza del Popolo. Over the People’s 
Gate the Great Bear was hanging in the clear North¬ 
ern sky. Perhaps no group of stars can be so pro¬ 
ductive of nostalgia to the British exile as this one; 
looking upon it he seems to hear the rush of the 
North Sea -in his ears and the winds that torment 
his island home sweeping past him. 

Carina crossed the bridge. The street lamps prick¬ 
ing the road along the embankment made it look like 
a fairy avenue of pallid trees and jewelled lights. 
She was conscious now of fatigue. And there were 
still some hours to be lived through somehow before 
Jim could possibly arrive. The torture of suspense 
was upon her. 

Lady Murray proposed an early dinner. Jim could 
have some supper When he arrived, and as the train 
was generally late it would be useless to wait for 
him. Directly the children were in bed, they sat 
down to a silent little meal. Lady Murray, always 
tactful, 'asked no questions. And after dinner she 
went to her own room on the pretext of writing 
letters. Carina was left alone in the salotto —to 
wait for Jim. 

Her thoughts fled backward, partly because she 
dared not let them dwell upon the future—the future 
that even now seemed to be knocking at her door. 
And always she saw how completely and how heart- 
breakingly those past days had been associated and 
inter-knit with Peter. He had been there from the 
beginning; she could see him sullen and rebellious at 
Lord’s, all his young soul in fierce revolt at the 
thought of being supplanted by her in his father’s 
favor. Then the scene of her arrival at Linfold, 
with Peter coming into the library, cold, distant, 
scarcely trying to hide his aversion. And then com- 


CARINA 


386 

ing to her out of the darkness and storm of the win¬ 
ter night, with the rain and wind beating about 
him . . . to be gathered to her and kissed, and 

assured of her love. Never again after that evening 
to be her enemy, but always her beloved and devoted 
son. And when that love had borne its sure, in¬ 
evitable, spiritual fruit, Jim had stepped in and ruth¬ 
lessly separated them. Peter and she were destined 
never again to meet in this world. Of his subsequent 
history she knew nothing at all; she had often beaten 
her hands in vain against that dividing wall of 
darkness. Her old uneasy fear of her husband came 
back to her now, as this thought pressed itself upon 
her. After Tony’s birth she had been so free from 
that fear. That event had subtly changed their re¬ 
lations, making them limpid and equal. Her love 
for Jim had grown apace after that. And then she 
remembered the final bitter leave-taking when he had 
looked at her with hard eyes from which all trace 
of love had been extinguished. He had gone out 
of her presence in a cold passion of anger, because 
of Peter. And now Peter was dead. . . . 

Peter was dead, in his splendid youth, with all his 
high promise unfulfilled; and Jim was coming back 
to her, a stricken, broken-hearted man. 

Peter was dead . . . She wondered if there 

had been any time before the end, for him to send 
her a message. 

There was a little stir in the hall, just beyond the 
door of the salotto. She heard the sound of a trunk 
being flung upon the hard flooring. It must be 
Jim . . . and she had not expected him quite 
so soon. She glanced at the clock. Yes, his train 
must have been unusually punctual. She heard the 
murmur of voices, and she tried to rise and go to 
the door to greet him. But she could not move, for 
the great trembling in all her limbs. She could not 


CARINA 


387 

even rise from her low seat beside the window, 
through which she could see the wonderful clustered 
lights of Rome. When the door opened and the 
figure of a man, wrapped still in a heavy travelling 
coat, stood hesitatingly on the threshold, a mist swam 
before her eyes, blotting out the room and all it 
contained, hiding Jim’s face from her, so that she 
could not tell if he had come in grief or in anger, 
as a friend or as an enemy. 

She had not long to wait, for he closed the door 
abruptly, and with his old rapid decisive movements 
came across the room to her. He stooped down and 
put his arm about her, then he slid to his knees and 
gathered her to his heart. Her face was pressed 
against his, and she felt that his hard thin cheek was 
wet with tears. 

She looked at him then, and saw that there were 
deep lines of suffering in his face, and the eyes were 
sombre and heavy-lidded as if he had not slept for 
many nights, but had grieved passionately and con¬ 
tinuously for the son he had lost. Above his brow 
the thick hair was almost white, it made him look 
incredibly older. But he had come back to her across 
the terrible calamity that had wrecked and ruined 
his life, and she knew that he had come sure of his 
welcome, knowing that she alone of all human beings 
had power to comfort him now. 

“Carina . . . Carina . . he murmured 
brokenly. 

There was no need for any words between them. 
All the past year, with its shame and humiliation, 
was blotted out for Carina. She felt only a desire 
to comfort him, to assure him of her love that had 
never failed. 

“Car, darling, I’ve come to fetch you home,’’ he 
said at last, lifting his ravaged face and gazing at 
her with those terrible haunting eyes. “You must 


3 88 


CARINA 


forgive me . . . take pity on me. I’ve no son 

now. But Peter asked me to tell you that he died a 
Catholic. I sent for the priest—there was only just 
time. He was fortified. ...” 

“I’m so very thankful, dear Jim, that he became 
a Catholic before he died. I’d so hoped . . . 

But won’t you tell me about it?” 

Little by little he related the happenings of that 
dark December night when Peter’s splendid young 
body had been carried in, crushed and broken, never 
again to leave Linfold alive. She heard how the 
boy had entreated his father to send for Father 
Pemberton, and of how the priest had come, carry¬ 
ing the Blessed Sacrament into Linfold for the first 
time since the days of the Reformation. Of how 
he had baptized, absolved and anointed Peter, before 
he went out on his last journey, sustained and for¬ 
tified by the Mystical Food of the Holy Viaticum. 
Of how he had seemed strangely comforted and 
tranquillized. He had always made light of the 
pain—his one thought had been to send for the 
priest. Jim told her, too, of his last words concern¬ 
ing her, and also of that interview he had had with 
him a day or two before his death, in which he had 
entreated him to send for her, and had expressed 
his belief that never in any case would he inherit 
Linfold. It was as if he had had some strong pre¬ 
monition of approaching death. . . . 

“And then, Car darling. . . .” 

“Yes, Jim?” she said, wondering what else he still 
had to tell her. 

“Afterward—when it was all over—I think I 
should have gone mad with grief if Father Pember¬ 
ton hadn’t been there. He stayed all night, and I 
had a long talk with him. In the morning very early 
he said Mass in Peter’s room, for the repose of his 
soul. They took him up to his own room, you know, 


CARINA 


3^9 

after he was dead. I hardly went to bed, and Father 
Pemberton stayed with me. We watched in turn 
nearly all night. He told me what prayers to say. 
And after Mass he came and talked to me. He made 
me change many opinions that I’d always held—he 
taught me to see certain things in quite a different 
light. More as you see them, and as Peter had 
learned to see them. Don’t place too much hope upon 
it, Car darling—I’m very broken now—I’d clutch at 
simply any straw that offered help. But there was 
one thing he told me that impressed me very much. 
He said that from the time of St. Paul onward down 
to the present day there have been many converts 
from among those who have most fiercely hated and 
persecuted the Catholic Church. It seemed as if the 
Holy Spirit was constrained to show them that they 
could not fight against God. Sooner or later they 
are pursued, captured, and forced to give in. And 
I’ve been fighting against the Catholic Church . . . 
even that first time I went to Mass with you in Lin- 
town I felt it had something that no other church had 
—I saw a little glimmer of the truth—and I fought 
against it. I said that nothing should ever induce 
me to let Peter become a Catholic—I told him over 
and over again that if he did become one I should 
disinherit him. And then at the last it was I who 
had to send for Father Pemberton, and you mustn’t 
think that I did it against my will. When I’d once 
made myself telephone, I suffered tortures lest he 
shouldn’t come in time. I think if he hadn’t, I should 
have regarded it as a sign that it was too late for 
me to offer contrition and sorrow for what I’d done. 
Father Pemberton urged me to meditate on the 
words: I am Jesus Whom thou persecutest 
it is hard for thee to kick against the goad. . . .” 

There was a long silence after he had made this 
—to her poignant—confession. 


39° 


CARINA 


“I could have kissed the ground when Father 
Pemberton came into the house that night,” he said 
at last. “I can’t possibly describe the relief it was 
to see him.” 

“I’m sure it must have been. I’m glad you gave 
Peter that, Jim.” 

Carina’s voice was very soft. 

“It was Father Pemberton who urged me to lose 
no time in coming out to you. At first I was afraid 
—I couldn’t believe you’d ever forgive me or want 
to see me again. But he said he knew you so well— 
he could answer for you.” He lifted his hand and 
pushed the bright hair back from her brow with the 
old caressing gesture. 

Carina rose. 

“Come with me, Jim. You must see Tony.” 

She leaned a little heavily on his arm as they went 
out of the room and down the long passage together, 
almost as if strength had gone out of her. 

They went into the nursery. Tony was lying, 
flushed and rosy in her cot, her dark hair damp and 
tumbled. But Jim scarcely seemed to see her. His 
eyes were fixed in blank bewilderment upon a tiny 
wooden cradle, hung with lace and muslin, that stood 
just beyond. The kind of cradle that Tony had 
slept in for the first months of her life. . . 

Carina, seeing his fixed glance, went up to it and 
drew aside the fragile filmy draperies. 

“Jim,” she whispered, “you said just now that you 
had no son . . . This is your little son, In¬ 
nocent. . . .” 

He stared at her incredulously. Into all his many 
dreams of her this possibility had never entered. 

“My son? But you never told me . . . When?” 

“He was born on the second of September—here 
in this flat. Aunt Nora was with me.” 


CARINA 


39i 


“I don’t understand . . . Why didn’t you tell 

me? It would have made all the difference.” 

She could not tell him, in that hour of restored 
trust and confidence, of her abiding, haunting fear 
that he might come and take her children from her. 
Especially when he knew that she had borne him a 
son. 

“He’s such a darling, Jim—such a strong beauti¬ 
ful baby. I know he can never be to you what Peter 
was—but I hope he may grow up like him, in every 
possible way . . .” She slipped her hand into 

her husband’s. He moved a pace nearer, and looked 
down at the tiny face with its mass of silken fair 
curls. 

“He’s very like Peter—like what Peter was as 
a baby—except for the color of the hair.” 

“And his eyes are like Peter’s—such beautiful blue 
eyes.” 

Jim said dreamily: “My mother had those eyes. 
I remember when I was a little chap, thinking how 
lovely they were.” 

He stooped and touched the brow with his lips, 
very softly for fear of waking him. Then he turned 
to his wife. 

“Oh, you should have told me, Car darling. You 
should have told me he was coming . . . You 

shouldn’t have left me in the dark. . . 

There was a world of tender reproach in his tone. 

“Forgive me, Jim. It was so difficult to believe 
that you cared any more.” 

He looked at her hollow-eyed. 

“You must have known I always loved you,” he 
said. 

Carina lifted the still slumbering Innocent from 
his crib, and held him out to Jim. 

“I want to see him in your arms,” she said. 

Jim took him, holding him to his breast. The child 


392 CARINA 

did not stir or wake. Once long ago he had thus 
held Peter. ... 

“He’s very like Peter,” he said again, pressing 
another light kiss on the little face. 

They sat down side by side near the window, Jim 
still holding the sleeping Innocent in his arms. Below 
them the lights of Rome burned with a clear and 
steady brightness. A dome stood up, darkly etched 
against the night sky. Far below them they could 
see the Tiber flowing past strong and full, passing 
under the bridges with a subdued roar as of many 
waters. 

They were both thinking of the dead boy. If he 
had separated them, it was yet most surely he who 
had brought them together again. Once Carina crept 
a little closer to her husband, and across the straight 
small form he was holding in his arms he bent his 
head and kissed her. She felt that in spite of his 
grief the little son had brought a measure of com¬ 
fort and joy to his heart. 

He spoke at last. 

“When do you think you’ll be ready to start, Car 
darling? I’ll wait till you’re ready—you mustn’t 
make that long journey alone. But do you think it 
could be soon?” He looked at her wistfully. She 
had received him with such beautiful tenderness that 
he felt she must surely have forgiven him, and be 
ready to return to the house that for a whole year 
had been bereft of her presence. 

“Oh, I can be ready very soon,” she answered, 
almost with eagerness. “I shall have to give up this 
flat, of course—that’ll take a few days. And you 
must have a little rest, too—you’re looking deadly 
tired, Jim.” 

Tony, roused by the sound of voices, now awoke 
and suddenly stood up in her cot. Carina thought 
at first that the vision of a strange man sitting there 


CARINA 


393 


might frighten her, and rising ran to her side. But 
Tony—an adorable creature in her white night-dress 
—stood there close to the protecting railing with both 
little plump arms outstretched. 

“Daddy!” she cried. 

Carina had often told her that she had a Daddy 
in England who would one day come to see her, 
though always she had felt that she was telling the 
child a lovely and impossible fairy tale. But it bore 
its own happy fruit at that moment, for Jim hastily 
putting Innocent into his wife’s arms made two 
strides toward the cot and clasped Tony to his heart. 

She gave a gurgle of delight. 

“Daddy! Daddy!” 

And it was thus that Lady Murray found them 
when some little time later she intruded upon them, 
being no longer able to bear her impatient anxiety 
to know what was happening between the long- 
estranged couple. 

She felt she would not have missed the pretty little 
scene for all the world, and it enabled her to greet 
Jim with a genuine display of her old affection. 

Carina put out her hand and touched Lady Mur¬ 
ray’s, as if she wanted to draw her into the little 
intimate circle. 

“We’re all going back to Linfold as soon as Jim’s 
rested,” she announced, “and you must come too, 
dear Aunt Nora.” 


THE END 


Printed by Fenziger Brothers, New York 



BOOKS OF DOCTRINE, INSTRUCTION, 
DEVOTION, MEDITATION, BIOGRAPHY, 
NOVELS, JUVENILES, ETC. 


PUBLISHED BY 


BENZIGER BROTHERS 


CINCINNATI 

343 Main St. 


NEW YORK 
36-38 Barclay St. 


CHICAGO 

205-207 W. Washington St. 


Books not marked net will be sent postpaid on receipt of the advertised price. 
Books marked net are such where ten per cent must be added for postage. Thus a 
book advertised at net $1.00 will be sent postpaid on receipt of $1.10. 

I. INSTRUCTION, DOCTRINE, APOLOGETICS, CONTROVERSY, 

EDUCATIONAL 


AMERICAN PRIEST, THE. Schmidt. 
net , $1.50. 

ANECDOTES AND EXAMPLES IL¬ 
LUSTRATING THE CATHOLIC 
CATECHISM. Spirago. net , $2.75. 

ART OF PROFITING BY OUR 
FAULTS. Tissot. net , $0.75. 

BOY SAVERS’ GUIDE. Quin, S.J. net , 
$2.50. 

CATECHISM EXPLAINED, THE. 
Spirago-Clarke. net , $ 3 - 75 - 

CATHOLIC AMERICAN, THE. 
Schmidt, net , $1.50. 

CATHOLIC BELIEF. Faa di Bruno. 
Paper, $0.25; cloth, net , $0.85. 

CATHOLIC CEREMONIES AND EX¬ 
PLANATION OF THE ECCLE¬ 
SIASTICAL YEAR. Durand. Paper, 
$0.25; cloth, net , $0.85. 

CATHOLIC HOME ANNUAL. Retail 
$0.25; postpaid, $0.29. 

CATHOLIC PRACTICE AT CHURCH 
AND AT HOME. Klauder. Paper, 
*$0.45; cloth, net , $0.85. 

CATHOLIC’S READY ANSWER, THE. 
Hill, S.J. net , $2.00. 

CATHOLIC TEACHING FOR YOUNG 
AND OLD. Wray. Paper, $0.25; 
cloth, net , $0.85. 

CATHOLIC’S WORK IN THE WORLD 
Husslein, S.J. net , $1.50. 

CEREMONIAL FOR ALTAR BOYS. 
Britt, O.S.B. net , $0.60. 

CHARACTERISTICS AND RELIG¬ 
ION OF MODERN SOCIALISM. 
Ming, S.J. nmo. net , $2.50. 

CHILD PREPARED FOR FIRST COM¬ 
MUNION. DE Zulueta. Paper, *$0.08. 

CHRISTIAN APOLOGETICS. De- 
vtvier-Messmer. net , $ 3 - 5 °- 

CHRISTIAN EDUCATION. O’Con¬ 
nell. net , $1.00. 

CHRISTIAN FATHER. Cramer, net , 
$0.85. 

CHRISTIAN MOTHER. Cramer, net , 
$0.85. 


CHURCH AND THE PROBLEMS OF 
TODAY, THE. Schmidt. i2mo. 
net , $1.50. 

CORRECT THING FOR CATHOLICS. 
Bugg. net , $1.25. 

DIVINE GRACE. Wirth. net , $0.85. 
EDUCATION OF OUR GIRLS. Shields. 
net , $1.50. 

EXPLANATION OF BIBLE HISTORY. 
Nash, net , $2.50. 

EXPLANATION OF CATHOLIC 
MORALS. Stapleton, net , $0.85. 
EXPLANATION OF THE BALTI¬ 
MORE CATECHISM. Kinkead. net , 
H$i. 50 - 

EXPLANATION OF THE COM¬ 
MANDMENTS. Rolfus. net , $0.90. 
EXPLANATION OF THE CREED. 
Rolfus. net , $0.90. 

EXPLANATION OF GOSPELS AND 
OF CATHOLIC WORSHIP. Lam- 
bert-Brennan. Paper, $0.25; cloth, 
net , $0.85. 

EXPLANATION OF THE MASS. 
Cochem. net , $0.85. 

EXPLANATION OF THE HOLY SAC¬ 
RAMENTS. Rolfus. net , $0.90. 
EXPLANATION OF THE PRAYERS 
AND CEREMONIES OF THE 
MASS. Lanslots, O.S.B. net , $0.85. 
EXPLANATION OF THE SALVE 
REGINA. St. Alphonsus. net , $1.25. 
EXTREME UNCTION. Paper, *$0.12. 
FOLLOWING OF CHRIST, THE. 
Plain Edition. With Reflections, 

FOUNDATION OF TRUE MORALITY. 

Slater, S.J. net , $1.25. 
FUNDAMENTALS OF THE RELIG¬ 
IOUS LIFE. Schleuter, S.J. net , $0.75. 
FUTURE LIFE, THE. Sasia, S.J. net , 

GENERAL CONFESSION MADE 
EASY. Konings.C.SS.R. Cloth, *$0.25. 
GENTLEMAN, A. Egan, net , $1.25. 
GIFT OF THE KING. By a Religious. 
net , $0.60. 


I 


a-jh-00 


GLORIES AND TRIUMPHS OF THE 
CATHOLIC CHURCH, net, $3 50. 

GOD, CHRIST, AND THE CHURCH. 
Hammer, O.F.M. net, $3.50. 

GOFFINE’S DEVOUT INSTRUC¬ 
TIONS ON THE EPISTLES AND 
GOSPELS FOR THE SUNDAYS 
AND HOLY-DAYS, net, $1.75. 

GREAT ENCYCLICAL LETTERS OF 
POPE LEO XIII. net, $3.50. 

GUIDE FOR SACRISTANS, net, $1.50. 

HANDBOOK OF THE CHRISTIAN RE¬ 
LIGION. Wilmers, S.J. net, IH2.50. 

HEAVEN OPEN TO SOULS. Semple, 
S.J. net, $2.75. 

HOME WORLD THE. Doyle, S.J. 
Paper, $0.25; cloth, net, $1.25. 

HOW TO COMFORT THE SICK, 
Krebs, C.SS.R. net, $0.85. 

HOW TO MAKE THE MISSION. By 
a Dominican Father. Paper, *$0.12. 

INSTRUCTIONS ON THE COM¬ 
MANDMENTS OF GOD AND THE 
SACRAMENTS OF THE CHURCH. 
St. Alphonsus Liguori. net, $0.85. 

INTRODUCTION TO A DEVOUT 
LIFE. St. Francis de Sales, net, 
$1.00. 

LADY, A. Bugg. net, $1.25. 

LAWS OF THE KING. By a Religious. 
net, $0.60. 

LESSONS OF THE SAVIOUR. By a 
Religious, net, $0.60. 

LITTLE ALTAR BOY’S MANUAL. 
$0.50. 

MANUAL OF SELF-KNOWLEDGE 
AND CHRISTIAN PERFECTION, 
A. Henry, C.SS.R. net, $0.75. 

MANUAL OF THEOLOGY FOR THE 
LAITY. Geiermann, C.SS.R. Paper, 
*$0.45; cloth, net, $0.90. 

MASS AND VESTMENTS OF THE 
CATHOLIC CHURCH. Walsh, n, $3.00. 

MASS-SERVER’S CARD. Per doz. net, 
$0.50. 

MORALITY OF MODERN SOCIAL¬ 
ISM. Ming, S.J. net, $2.50. 

NARROW WAY, THE. Geiermann, 
C.SS.R. net, $0.90. 

OUT TO WIN. Straight Talks to Boys 
on the Way to Manhood. Conroy, 
S.J. net, $1.50. 

PRINCIPAL CATHOLIC PRACTICES. 
Schmidt, net, $1.50. 

QUEEN’S FESTIVALS, THE. By a 
Religious, net, $0.60. 


REASONABLENESS OF CATHOLIC 
CEREMONIES AND PRACTICES. 
Burke, net, $0.75. 

RELIGIOUS STATE, THE. St. Al¬ 
phonsus. net, $0.75. 
SACRAMENTALS OF THE HOLY 
CATHOLIC CHURCH. Lambing. 
Paper, $0.25; cloth, net, $0.85. 
SCAPULAR MEDAL, THE. Geier¬ 
mann, C.SS.R. Paper, *$0.08. 

SHORT CONFERENCES ON THE 
SACRED HEART. Brinkmeyer. net, 
$0. 85 - 

SHORT COURSE IN CATHOLIC DOC¬ 
TRINE. Paper, *$0.12. 

SHORT STORIES ON CHRISTIAN 
DOCTRINE, net, $1.75. 

SOCIALISM: ITS THEORETICAL 
BASIS AND PRACTICAL APPLI¬ 
CATION. Cathrein-Gettleman. net, 
$2.75. 

SOCIAL ORGANIZATION IN PAR¬ 
ISHES. Garesche, S.J. net, $2.75. 
SPIRITUAL PEPPER AND SALT. 
Stang. Paper, *$0.45; cloth, net. 

So.90. 

STORIES OF THE MIRACLES OF 
OUR LORD. By a Religious, net, 
So.60. 

STORY OF THE FRIENDS OF JESUS. 

By a Religious, net, S0.60. 
SUNDAY-SCHOOL DIRECTOR'S 
GUIDE. Sloan, net, $1.50. 
SUNDAY-SCHOOL TEACHER’S 
GUIDE. Sloan, net, $0.85. 

SURE WAY TO A HAPPY MAR¬ 
RIAGE. Taylor, net, $0.85. 

TALKS TO NURSES. Spalding, S.J. 
net, $1.50. 

TALKS TO PARENTS. Conroy, S.J. 
net, Si.50. 

TALKS WITH THE LITTLE ONES 
ABOUT THE APOSTLES’ CREED. 
By a Religious, net. So.60. 

TRAINING OF CHILDREN AND OF 
GIRLS IN THEIR TEENS. Cecilia. 
net, $1.25. 

TRUE POLITENESS. Demore. *,$1.25. 
VOCATION. Van Tricht-Conniif. 
Paper, *$0.12. 

VOCATIONS EXPLAINED. Cut flush, 
*So.I2. 

WAY OF INTERIOR PEACE, de 
Lehen. S.J. net, $2.25. 

WHAT THE CHURCH TEACHES. 
Drury. Paper, *$0.45; cloth, net, $0.90. 


II. DEVOTION, MEDITATION, SPIRITUAL READING, 
PRAYER-BOOKS 


ABANDONMENT; or Absolute Surrender 
of Self to Divine Providence. Caus- 
sade, S.J. net, $0.75. 

ADORATION OF THE BLESSED 
SACRAMENT. Tesniere. net, $0.85. 
BLESSED SACRAMENT BOOK. 
Prayer-Book by Father Lasance. Im. 
leather. $2.25. 

BLOSSOMS OF THE CROSS. Giehrl. 
net, $1.75. 

BOOK OF THE PROFESSED. 3 vols. 
Each, net, $1.35. ^ 


BREAD OF LIFE, THE. William. 
net, $1.35. 

CATHOLIC GIRL’S GUIDE, THE. 
Prayer-Book by Father Lasance . Seal 
grain cloth, stiff covers, red edges, $1.25. 
Im. leather, limp, red edges, $1.50; gold 
edges, $2.00. Real leather, limp, gold 
edges, $2.50. 

CHARACTERISTICS OF TRUE DE¬ 
VOTION. Grou, S.J. net, $1.00. 

DEVOTION TO THE SACRED HEART 
OF JESUS. Nolden, S.J. net, $1.75. 


DEVOTIONS AND PRAYERS BY 
ST. ALPHONSUS. Ward, net, $1.50. 
DEVOTIONS AND PRAYERS FOR 
THE SICK ROOM. Krebs, net, 
$1.25. 

DEVOTIONS TO THE SACRED 
HEART FOR THE FIRST FRIDAY 
OF EVERY MONTH. Huguet. net, 
$0.75. 

DOMINICAN MISSION BOOK. By a 
Dominican Father. $1.00. 

EPITOME OF THE PRIESTLY LIFE, 
AN. Arvisenet.—O’Sullivan, net, 

$2.50. 

EUCHARISTIC SOUL ELEVATIONS. 

Stadelman, C.S.Sp. net, $0.60. 
FAIREST FLOWER OF PARADISE, 
THE. Lepicier, O.S.M., net, $1.50. 
FIRST SPIRITUAL AID TO THE 
SICK. McGrath, net, $0.60. 
FLOWERS OF THE CLOISTER. Poems. 

de La Motte. net, $1.75. 

FOR FREQUENT COMMUNICANTS. 

Roche, S.J. Paper, *$0.12. 

GLORIES OF MARY. St. Alphonsus. 
net, $1.7 5- 

GLORIES OF THE SACRED HEART. 


Hausherr, S.J. net, $1.75. 
GREETINGS TO THE CHRIST-CHILD. 
Poems, net, $1.00. 

HELP FOR THE POOR SOULS. Ack- 
ermann. $0.90. 

HELPS TO A SPIRITUAL LIFE. 

Schneider, net, $0.85. 

HIDDEN TREASURE, THE. St. 

Leonard, net, $0.75. 

HOLY HOUR, THE. Keiley. i6mo. 
12 

HOLY HOUR OF ADORATION. 
Stang. net, $0.90. 

HOLY SOULS BOOK. Reflections on 
Purgatory. A Complete Prayer-Book. 
By Rev. F. X. Lasance. Imitation 
leather, round comers, red edges, $1.50; 
gold edges, $2.00; real leather, gold edges, 
$2.75; Turkey Morocco, limp, gold roll, 
$4.00. 

HOLY VIATICUM OF LIFE AS OF 
DEATH. Dever. net, $1.25. 
IMITATION OF THE SACRED 
HEART. Arnoudt. net, $1.75. 

IN HEAVEN WE KNOW OUR OWN. 

Blot, S.J. net, $0.75. 

INTERIOR OF JESUS AND MARY. 

Grou, S.J. 2 vols. net, $3.00. 

JESUS CHRIST THE KING OF OUR 
HEARTS. Lepicier, O.S.M. net, 
Si. 50. * 

LIFE’S LESSONS. Garesche, S.J. 
net, $1.25. 

LITTLE ALTAR BOYS’ MANUAL. 


LITTLE COMMUNICANTS’ PRAYER- 
BOOK. Sloan. $0.25. 

LITTLE MANUAL OF ST. ANTHONY. 

Lasance. net, $0.25. 

LITTLE MANUAL OF ST. JOSEPH. 


Lings, net, $0.25. 
LITTLE MANUAL 


OF ST. RITA. 


McGrath. $0.90. 

LITTLE MASS BOOK, THE. Lynch. 
Paper, *$o.o8. 


LITTLE MONTH OF THE SOULS IN 
PURGATORY, net, $0.60. 

LITTLE OFFICE OF THE BLESSED 
VIRGIN MARY. In Latin and Eng¬ 
lish, net, $1.50; in Latin only net, 

LITTLE OFFICE OF THE IMMACU¬ 
LATE CONCEPTION. Paper, *$0.08. 

MANNA OF THE SOUL. Vest-pocket 
Edition. A Little Book of Prayer for 
Men and Women. By Rev. F. X. 
Lasance. Oblong, 32mo. $0.50. 

MANNA OF THE SOUL. A Book of 
Prayer for Men and Women. By Rev. 
F. X. Lasance. Extra Large Type 
Edition, 544 pages, i6mo. $1.50. 

MANNA OF THE SOUL. Prayer- 
Book by Rev. F. X. Lasance. Thin 
Edition. Im. leather. $1.10. 

MANNA OF THE SOUL. Prayer- 
Book. By Rev. F. X. Lasance. Thin 
Edition with Epistles and Gospels. 
$1.50. 

MANUAL OF THE HOLY EUCHAR¬ 
IST. Lasance. Imitation leather, 
limp, red edges, net, $1.25. 

MANUAL OF THE HOLY NAME. 
$0.75. 

MANUAL OF THE SACRED HEART, 
NEW, $1.50. 

MANUAL OF ST. ANTHONY, net, $0.90. 

MARLE COROLLA. Poems. Hill, 
C.P. net, $1.75. 

MARY, HELP OF CHRISTIANS. 


Hammer, O.F.M., net, $3.50. 

MASS DEVOTIONS AND READINGS 
ON THE MASS. Lasance. Im. 
leather, limp, red edges, net, $1.25. 

MEANS OF GRACE. Brennan, net, 
$S-oo. 

MEDITATIONS FOR ALL THE DAYS 
OF THE YEAR. Hamon. S.S. 5 vols. 
net, $8.75. 

MEDITATIONS FOR EVERY DAY IN 
THE MONTH. Nepveu, S.J. net, 
$0.85. 

MEDITATIONS FOR EVERY DAY 
IN THE YEAR. Baxter, S.J. net, 
$2.00. 

MEDITATIONS FOR EVERY DAY 
IN THE YEAR ON THE LIFE OF 
OUR LORD. Vercruysse, S.J. 2 
vols. net, $4.50. 

MEDITATIONS FOR THE USE OF 
THE SECULAR CLERGY. Chaignon, 
S.J. 2 vols. net, $7.00. 

MEDITATIONS ON THE LIFE, THE 
TEACHING AND THE PASSION 


OF JESUS CHRIST. Ilg-Clarke. 
2 vols. net, $5.00. 

MEDITATIONS ON THE MYSTERIES 
OF OUR HOLY FAITH, Barraud, 
S.J. 2 vols., net, $4.50. 

MEDITATIONS ON THE PASSION OF 
OUR LORD, net, $0.85. 

MEDITATIONS ON THE SUFFER¬ 
INGS OF JESUS CHRIST Per- 
inaldo. net, $0.85. 

MISSION-BOOK OF THE REDEMP- 
TORIST FATHERS. $0.90. 

MISSION BOOK FOR THE MAR¬ 
RIED. Girardey, C.SS.R. $0.90. 


3 


MISSION BOOK FOR THE SINGLE. 
Glrardey, C.SS.R. $a9°. 

MISSION REMEMBRANCE OF THE 
REDEMPTORIST FATHERS. 

• Geiermann, C.SS.R. $0.90. 

MOMENTS BEFORE THE TABER¬ 
NACLE. Russell, S.J. net, $0.60. 

MORE SHORT SPIRITUAL READ¬ 
INGS FOR MARY’S CHILDREN. 
Cecilla. net, $0.85. 

MOST BELOVED WOMAN, THE. 
Gareschj!, S.J. net . $1.25. 

MY PRAYER-BOOK. Happiness in 
Goodness. Reflections, Counsels, Pray¬ 
ers, and Devotions. By Rev. F. X. 
Lasance. i6mo. Seal grain cloth, 
stiff covers, square corners, red edges, 
$1.25. Imitation leather, limp, round 
corners, red edges, $1.50; gold edges, 
$2.00. Real Leather, limp, round 
corners, gold edges, $2.50. 

NEW MISSAL FOR EVERY DAY, 
THE. Complete Missal in English 
for Every Day in the Year. With 
Introduction Notes, and a Book of 
Prayer. By Rev. F. X. Lasance. 
Oblong, 32mo. Imitation leather. 
$2.25. 

NEW TESTAMENT. i2mo edition. 
Large type. Cloth, net, $1.75; 32mo 
edition. Flexible cloth, net, $0.45.; 
Stiff cloth, net, $0.80., Amer. seal, 
gold edges, net, $1.35. 

NEW TESTAMENT AND CATHO¬ 
LIC PRAYER-BOOK COMBINED. 
net, $0.85. 

OFFICE OF HOLY WEEK, COM¬ 
PLETE. Latin and English. Cut 
flush, net, $0.40; silk cloth, net, $0.60; 
Am. seal, red edges, net, $1.25; Am. 
seal, gold edges, net, $1.50. 

OUR FAVORITE DEVOTIONS. Lings. 
net, $1.00. 

OUR FAVORITE NOVENAS. Lings. 
net, $1.00. 

OUTLINE MEDITATIONS. Cecilia. 
net, $1.75* 

PATHS OF GOODNESS, THE. Gar- 
esche, S.J. net, $1.25. 

POCKET PRAYER-BOOK. Cloth, net, 
$0.25. 

POLICEMEN’S AND FIREMEN’S 
COMPANION. McGrath. $0.35. 

PRAYER-BOOK FOR RELIGIOUS. 
Lasance. i6mo. Imitation leather, 
limp, red edges, net, $2.co. 

PRAYERS FOR OUR DEAD. Mc¬ 
Grath. Cloth, $0.35; im. leather, 

$0.75- 

PRISONER OF LOVE. Prayer-Book by 
Father Lasance. Im. leather, limp, 
red edges, $1.50. 

PRIVATE RETREAT FOR RELIG¬ 
IOUS. Geiermann, C.SS.R. net, 
$2.50. 

REFLECTIONS FOR RELIGIOUS. 
Lasance. net, $2.00. 

REJOICE IN THE LORD. Prayer- 
Book by Father Lasance. $1.75. 


ROSARY, THE CROWN OF MARY. 
By a Dominican Father, i6mo, paper, 

*$O.I2. 

RULES OF LIFE FOR THE PASTOR 
OF SOULS. Slater-Rauch. net, $1.50. 

SACRED HEART BOOK. Prayer-Book 
by Father Lasance. Im. leather, limp, 
red edges, $1.25. 

SACRED HEART STUDIED IN THE 
SACRED SCRIPTURES. Saintrain. 
net, $0.85. 

SACRIFICE OF THE MASS WORTH¬ 
ILY CELEBRATED. Chaignon, S.J. 
net, $2.75. 

SECRET OF SANCTITY. Crasset, S.J. 
net, $0.85. 

SERAPHIC GUIDE, THE. $1.25. 

SHORT MEDITATIONS FOR EVERY 
DAY. Lasausse. net, $0.85. 

SHORT VISITS TO THE BLESSED 
SACRAMENT. Lasance. net, $0.25. 

SODALIST’S VADE MECUM, net, 
$0.90. 

SOLDIERS’ AND SAILORS’ COM¬ 
PANION. McGrath. Vest-pocket 
shape, silk cloth or khaki. $0.35. 

SOUVENIR OF THE NOVITIATE. 
Taylor, net, $0.85. 

SPIRIT OF SACRIFICE, THE, AND 
THE LIFE OF SACRIFICE IN 
THE RELIGIOUS STATE. Giraud. 
net, $3.00. 


SPIRITUAL CONSIDERATIONS. 

Buckler, O.P. net, $0.85. 

SPOILING THE DIVINE FEAST. 


de Zulueta, S.J. Paper, *$0.08. 

STORIES FOR FIRST COMMUNI¬ 
CANTS. Keller, net, $0.60. 

SUNDAY MISSAL, THE. Lasance. 
Im. leather, limp, red edges, $1.50. 

THINGS IMMORTAL, THE. Gar- 
esche, S.J. net, $1.25. 

THOUGHTS ON THE RELIGIOUS 
LIFE. Lasance. Im. leather, limp, 
red edges, net, $2.00; Am. seal, limp, 
gold edges, net, $3.00. 

THOUGHTS AND AFFECTIONS ON 
THE PASSION OF JESUS CHRIST 
FOR EVERY DAY OF THE YEAR. 
Bergamo, net, $3.25. 

TRUE SPOUSE OF CHRIST. Liguori. 
net, $1.75. 


VALUES,EVERLASTING, THE. 

Garesche, S.J. net, $1.25. 
VENERATION OF THE BLESSED 
VIRGIN. Rohner - Brennan. net, 
$0.85. 

VIGIL HOUR, THE. Ryan, S.J. Paper, 

*$O.I2. 

VISITS TO JESUS IN THE TABER¬ 
NACLE. Lasance. Im. leather, limp, 
red edges, $1.75. 


VISITS TO THE MOST HOLY SACRA¬ 
MENT. Liguori. net, So.oo. 

WAY OF THE CROSS. Paper, *$0.08. 
WAY OF THE CROSS. Illustrated. 
Method of St. Alphonsus Liguori. 
*$0.25, 


4 


WAY OF THE CROSS, THE. Very 
large-type edition. Method of St. 
Alphonsus Liguori. *$0.25. 

WAY OF THE CROSS. Eucharistic 
method. *$0.25. 

WAY OF THE CROSS. By a Jesuit 
Father. *$0.25. 

WAY OF THE CROSS. Method of St. 

Francis of Assisi. *$0.25. 

WITH GOD. Prayer-Book by Father La- 
sance. Im. leather, limp, red edges $1.7 S- 
YOUNG MAN’S GUIDE, THE. Prayer- 


Book by Father Lasance. Seal grain 
Cloth, stiff covers, red edges, $1.25; 
Im. leather, limp, red edges, $1.50; 
gold edges, $2.00. 

YOUR INTERESTS ETERNAL. Gar- 
esche, SJ. net , $1.25. 

YOUR NEIGHBOR AND YOU. Gar- 
esche. S.J. net , $1.25. 

YOUR OWN HEART. Garesche, S.J. 
net , $1.25. 

YOUR, SOUL’S SALVATION. Gar¬ 
esche, S.J. net , $1.25. 


HI. THEOLOGY, LITURGY, HOLY SCRIPTURE, PHILOSOPHY, 

SCIENCE, CANON LAW 


ALTAR PRAYERS. Edition A: Eng¬ 
lish and Latin, net , $1.75. Edition B: 
German-English-Latin, net , $2.00. 

ANNOUNCEMENT BOOK. i2mo. 
net , $3.00. 

BAPTISMAL RITUAL, nmo. net , $1.50. 

BENEDICENDA. Schulte, net , $2.75. 

BURIAL RITUAL. Cloth, net , $2.50; 
sheepskin, net , $3.75. 

CASES OF CONSCIENCE. Slater, 
S.J. 2 vols. net , $6.00. 

CHRIST’S TEACHING CONCERNING 
DIVORCE. Gigot. net , 1f$2.7s. 

CLERGYMAN’S HANDBOOK OF LAW. 
Scanlon, net , $2.25. 

COMBINATION RECORD FOR SMALL 
PARISHES, net , $8.00. 

COMMENTARY ON THE PSALMS. 
Berry, net , $3.50. 

COMPENDIUM SACRiE LITURGLE. 
Wapelhorst, O.F.M. net , ^[$3.00. 

ECCLESIASTICAL DICTIONARY. 
Thein. 4to, half mor. net , $6.50. 

GENERAL INTRODUCTION TO THE 
STUDY OF THE HOLY SCRIP¬ 
TURES. Gigot. net , ^$4.00. 

GENERAL INTRODUCTION TO THE 
STUDY OF THE HOLY SCRIP¬ 
TURES. Abridged edition. Gigot. net , 
K$2.7 5 . 

HOLY BIBLE, THE. Large type, handy 
size. Cloth, $1.50. 

HYMNS OF THE BREVIARY AND 
MISSAL, THE. Britt, O.S.B. net , 
$6.00. 

JESUS LIVING IN THE PRIEST- 
Millet, S.J.-Byrne. net , $3.25. 

LIBER STATUS ANIMARUM, Or 
Parish Census Book. Large edition, size 
14X10 inches. 100 Families. 200pages, 
half leather, net , $7.00. 200 Families. 

400 pp. half leather, net , $8.00; Pocket 
Edition, net , $0.50. 

MANUAL OF HOMILETICS AND 
CATECHETICS. Schuech-Lueber- 
mann. net , $2.25. 

MANUAL OF MORAL THEOLOGY. 
Slater. S.J. 2 vols. net , $8.00. 

MARRIAGE LEGISLATION IN THE 
NEW CODE. Ayrinhac, S.S. net , 
$2.50. 


MARRIAGE RITUAL. Cloth, gilt edges, 
net , $2.50; sheepskin, gilt edges, net , $3-75- 

MESSAGE OF MOSES AND MODERN 
HIGHER CRITICISM. Gigot. Paper. 
net , H$o.i5. 

MISSALE ROMANUM. Benziger 
Brothers’ Authorized Vatican Edition. 
Black or red Amer. morocco, gold edges, 
net , $15.00; red Amer. morocco, gold 
stamping and edges, net , $17.50; red, 
finest quality morocco, red under gold 
edges, net , $22.00. 

MORAL PRINCIPLES AND MED¬ 
ICAL PRACTICE. Coppens, S.J., 
Spalding, S.J. net , $2.50. 

OUTLINES OF NEW TESTAMENT 
HISTORY. Gigot. net , H$2.7 S . 

PASTORAL THEOLOGY. Stang. net , 

H$ 2 . 25 . 

PENAL LEGISLATION IN THE NEW 
CODE OF CANON LAW. Ayrinhac, 
S.S. net , $3.00. 

PEW COLLECTION AND RECEIPT 
BOOK. Indexed. 11X8 inches, net , 
$3.00. 

PHILOSOPHIA MORALI, DE. Russo, 
S.J. Half leather, net , $2.75. 

PREPARATION FOR MARRIAGE. 
McHugh. O.P. net , $0.60. 

PRAXIS SYNODALIS. Manuale Sy- 
nodi Diocesanae ac Provincialis Cele- 
brandae. net , $1.00. 

QUESTIONS OF MORAL THEOLOGY. 
Slater, S.J. net , $3.00. 

RECORD OF BAPTISMS. 200 pages, 
700 entries, net , $7.00; 400 pages, 1400 
entries, net , $9.00; 600 pages, 2100 

entries, net , $12.00. 

RECORD OF CONFIRMATIONS. 
net , $6.00. 

RECORD OF FIRST COMMUNIONS. 
net , $6.00. 

RECORD OF INTERMENTS. net , 
$6.00. 

RECORD OF MARRIAGES. 200 
pages, 700 entries, net , $7.00.; 400 pages, 
1400 entries, net , $9.00; 600 pages, 

2100 entries, net , $12.00. 

RITUALE COMPENDIOSUM. Cloth, 
net , $1.25; seal, net , $2.00. 

SHORT HISTORY OF MORAL THE¬ 
OLOGY. Slater, S.J. net , $0.75. 


5 


SPECIAL INTRODUCTION TO THE 
STUDY OF THE OLD TESTAMENT. 
Gigot. Part I. net, HS2.7S. Part II. 
net, K$ 3 - 25 - 

SPIRAGO’S METHOD OF CHRISTIAN 
DOCTRINE. Messmer. net, $2.50. 


TEXTUAL CONCORDANCE OF THE 
HOLY SCRIPTURES. Williams. 
net, $5.75. 

WHAT CATHOLICS HAVE DONE 
FOR SCIENCE. Brennan. net, 
$i.SO. 


IV. SERMONS 


CHRISTIAN MYSTERIES. Bono- 
melli, D.D.-Byrne. 4 vols., net, $9.00. 
EIGHT-MINUTE SERMONS. De- 
mouy. 2 vols., net. $4.00. 

HOMILIES ON THE COMMON OF 
SAINTS. Bonomelli-Byrne. 2 vols., 
net, $4.50. 

HOMILIES ON THE EPISTLES AND 
GOSPELS. Bonomelli-Byrne. 4 vols. 
net, $9.00. 

MASTER’S WORD, THE, IN THE 
EPISTLES AND GOSPELS. Flynn. 

2 vols., net, $4.00. 

POPULAR SERMONS ON THE CAT¬ 
ECHISM. Bamberg-Thurston, S.J. 

3 vols., net, $8.50. 

SERMONS. Canon Sheehan, net, $3.00. 
SERMONS FOR CHILDREN’S MASSES. 

Frassinetti-Lings. net, $2.50. 
SERMONS FOR THE SUNDAYS 
AND CHIEF FESTIVALS OF THE 
ECCLESIASTICAL Y ; EAR. Pott- 
geisser, S.J, 2 vols., net, $5.00. 


SERMONS ON OUR BLESSED LADY. 
Flynn, net, $2.50. 

SERMONS ON THE BLESSED SAC¬ 
RAMENT. Scheurer-Lasance. net, 
$2.50. 

SERMONS ON THE CHIEF CHRIS¬ 
TIAN VIRTUES. Hunolt-Wirth. net, 
$2.75. 

SERMONS ON THE DUTIES OF 
CHRISTIANS. Hunolt-Wirth. net, 
$2.75. 

SERMONS ON THE FOUR LAST 
THINGS. Hunolt-Wirth. net, $2.75. 

SERMONS ON THE SEVEN DEADLY 
SINS. Hunolt-Wirth. net, $2.75. 

SERMONS ON THE VIRTUE AND 
THE SACRAMENT OF PENANCE. 
Hunolt-Wirth. net, $2.75. 

SERMONS ON THE MASS, THE SAC¬ 
RAMENTS AND THE SACRA- 
MENTALS. Flynn, net, $2.75. 


V. HISTORY. BIOGRAPHY. HAGIOLOGY. TRAVEL 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ST. IGNA¬ 
TIUS LOYOLA. O’Connor, S.J. net, 
$i. 7 S- 

CAMILLUS DE LELLIS. By a Sister 
of Mercy, net, $1.75. 

CHILD’S LIFE OF ST. JOAN OF 
ARC. Mannix. net, $1.50. 

GROWTH AND DEVELOPMENT OF 
THE CATHOLIC SCHOOL SYS¬ 
TEM IN THE UNITED STATES. 
Burns, C.S.C. net, $2.50. 

HISTORY OF THE CATHOLIC 
CHURCH. Brueck. 2 vols., net, 
$S-So. 

HISTORY OF THE CATHOLIC 
CHURCH. Businger-Brennan. net, 

HISTORY OF THE CATHOLIC 
CHURCH. Businger-Brennan. net, 
If $0.75. 

HISTORY OF THE PROTESTANT 
REFORMATION. Cobbett-Gas- 
Quet. net, $0.85. 

HISTORY OF THE MASS. O’Brien. 
net, $2.00. 

HOLINESS OF THE CHURCH IN THE 
NINETEENTH CENTURY. Kempf, 
S.J. net, $2.75. 

LIFE OF ST. MARGARET MARY 
ALACOQUE Illustrated. Bougaud. 
net $2.75. 


LIFE OF CHRIST. Businger-Brennan, 
Illustrated. Half morocco, gilt edges, 
net, $15.00. 

LIFE OF CHRIST. Illustrated. Bus- 
inger-Mullett. net, $3.50. 

LIFE OF CHRIST. Cochem. net, $0.85. 
LIFE OF ST. IGNATIUS LOYOLA. 

Genelli, S.J. net, $0.85. 

LIFE OF MADEMOISELLE LE 
GRAS, net, $0.85. 

LIFE OF POPE PIUS X. Illustrated. 
net, $3.50. 

LIFE OF THE BLESSED VIRGIN. 

Rohner. net, $0.85. 

LITTLE LIVES OF THE SAINTS FOR 
CHILDREN. Berthold. net, $0.75. 
LITTLE PICTORIAL LIVES OF THE 
SAINTS. With 400 illustrations, net, 
$2.00. 

LIVES OF THE SAINTS. Butler 
Paper, $0.25; cloth, net, $0.85. 
LOURDES. Clarke, S.J. net, $0.85. 
MARY THE QUEEN. By a Religious. 

net, $0.60. 

MIDDLE AGES, THE. Shahan. «,$3.oo. 
MILL TOWN PASTOR, A. Conroy, 
S.J. net, $1.75. 

NAMES THAT LIVE IN CATHOLIC 
HEARTS. Sadlier. net, $0.85. 

OUR OWN ST. RITA. Corcoran, 
O.S.A. net, $1.50. 


6 


PATRON SAINTS FOR CATHOLIC 
YOUTH. Mannix. Each life separately 
in attractive colored paper cover with 
illustration on front cover. Each, io 
cents postpaid; per 25 copies, assorted, 
net , $1.75; per 100 copies, assorted, 
net, $6.75. Sold only in packages con¬ 
taining 5 copies of one title. 

For Boys: St. Joseph; St. Aloysius; St. 

Anthony; St. Bernard; St. Martin; 

St. Michael; St. Francis Xavier; St. 

Patrick; St. Charles; St. Philip. 

The above can be had bound in 1 vol¬ 
ume, cloth, net , $1.00. 

For Girls: St. Ann; St. Agnes; St. 

Teresa; St. Rose of Lima; St. Cecilia; 

St. Helena; St. Bridget; St. Catherine; 

St. Elizabeth; St. Margaret. 

The above can be had bound in 1 vol¬ 
ume, cloth, net , $1.00. 

PICTORIAL LIVES OF THE SAINTS. 
With nearly 4.00 illustrations and over 
600 pages, net , $5.00. 

POPULAR LIFE OF ST. TERESA. 
L’abbe Joseph, net , $1.25. 

PRINCIPLES ORIGIN AND ESTAB¬ 
LISHMENT OF THE CATHOLIC 
SCHOOL SYSTEM IN THE UNITED 
STATES. Burns, C.S.C. net , $2.50. 

RAMBLES IN CATHOLIC LANDS. 
Barrett, O.S.B. Illustrated, net , $3.50. 


ROMA. Pagan Subterranean and Mod¬ 
ern Rome in Word and Picture. By 
Rev. Albert Kuhn, O.S.B., D.D. 
Preface by Cardinal Gibbons. 617 
pages. 744 illustrations. 48 full-page 
inserts, 3 plans of Rome in colors, 8£ 
X12 inches. Red im. leather, gold 
side, net , $15.00. 

ROMAN CURIA AS IT NOW EXISTS. 
Martin, S.J. net , $2.50. 

ST. ANTHONY. Ward, net , $0.85. 

ST. FRANCIS OF ASSISI. Dubois, 
S.M. net , $0.85. 

ST. JOAN OF ARC. Lynch, S.J. Illus¬ 
trated. net , $2.75. 

ST. JOHN BERCHMANS. Dele- 
haye, S.J.-Semple, S.J. net , $1.50. 

SAINTS AND PLACES. By John 
Ayscough. Illustrated, net , $3.00. 

SHORT LIVES OF THE SAINTS. 
Donnelly, net , $0.90. 

STORY OF THE DIVINE CHILD. 
Told for Children. Lings, net , $0.60. 

STORY OF THE ACTS OF THE APOS¬ 
TLES. Lynch, S.J. Illustrated, net , 
$2.75. 

WOMEN OF CATHOLICITY. Sadlier. 
net , $0.85. 

WONDER STORY, THE. Taggart. 
Illustrated. Board covers, net , $0.25; 
per 100, $22.50. Also an edition in 
French and Polish at same price. 


VI. JUVENILES 


FATHER FINN’S BOOKS. 

Each, net , $1.00. 

ON THE RUN. 

BOBBY IN MOVIELAND. 

FACING DANGER. 

HIS LUCKIEST YEAR. A Sequel to 
“Lucky Bob.” 

LUCKY BOB. 

PERCY WYNN; OR, MAKING A 
BOY OF HIM. 

TOM PLAYFAIR; OR. MAKING A 
START 

CLAUDE’ LIGHTFOOT; OR, HOW 
THE PROBLEM WAS SOLVED. 

HARRY DEE; OR, WORKING IT 
OUT. 

ETHELRED PRESTON; OR, THE 
ADVENTURES OF A NEWCOMER. 

THE BEST FOOT FORWARD; AND 
OTHER STORIES. 

“ BUT THY LOVE AND THY 
GRACE” 

CUPID OF CAMPION. 

THAJ FOOTBALL GAME, AND 
WHAT CAME OF IT. 

THE FAIRY OF THE SNOWS. 

THAT OFFICE BOY. 

HIS FIRST AND LAST APPEAR¬ 
ANCE. 

MOSTLY BOYS. SHORT STORIES. 

FATHER SPALDING’S BOOKS. 

Each, net , $1.25. 

SIGNALS FROM THE BAY TREE. 

HELD IN THE EVERGLADES. 

AT THE FOOT OF THE SANDHILLS. 

THE CAVE BY THE BEECH FORK. 


THE SHERIFF OF THE BEECH 
FORK. 

THE CAMP BY COPPER RIVER. 
THE RACE FOR COPPER ISLAND. 
THE MARKS OF THE BEAR CLAWS. 
THE OLD MILL ON THE WITH- 
ROSE. 

THE SUGAR CAMP AND AFTER 

ADVENTURE WITH THE APACHES. 

Ferry, net , $0.60. 

ALTHEA. Nirdllnger. net , $0.85. 

AS GOLD IN THE FURNACE. Copus, 
S.J. net , $1.25. 

AS TRUE AS GOLD. Mannix. net , 
$g.6o. 

AT THE FOOT OF THE SANDHILLS. 

Spalding, S.J. net , $1.25. 

BELL FOUNDRY. Schachinc, net , $0.60. 
BERKLEYS. THE. Wight, net , $0.60. 
BEST FOOT FORWARD, THE. Finn, 
S.J. net , $1.00. 

BETWEEN FRIENDS. Aumerle. net , 
$0.85. 

BISTOURI. Melandri. net , $0.60. 
BLISSYLVANIA POST-OFFICE. Tag¬ 
gart. net , $0.60. 

BOBBY IN MOVIELAND. Finn, S.J. 
net , $1.00. 

BOB O’LINK. Waggaman. net , $0.60. 
BROWNIE AND I. Aumerle. net , $0.85. 
BUNT AND BILL. Mulholland. net , 
$0.60. 

“ BUT THY LOVE AND THY GRACE.” 

Finn, S.J. net , $1.00. 

BY BRANSCOME RIVER. Taggart. 
net , $0.60, 


7 


CAMP BY COPPER RIVER. Spalding, 
S.J. net, $1.25. 

CAPTAIN TED. Waggaman. net, $1.25. 

CAVE BY THE BEECH FORK. Spald¬ 
ing, S.J. net, $1.25. 

CHILDREN OF CUPA. Mannix. net, 
$0.60. 

CHILDREN OF THE LOG CABIN. 
Delamare. net, $0.85. 

CLARE LORAINE. “Lee.” net, $0.85. 

CLAUDE LIGHTFOOT. Finn, S.J. net, 
$1.00. 

COBRA ISLAND. Boyton, S.J. net, 
$1.15. 

CUPA REVISITED. Mannix. net, $0.60. 

CUPID OF CAMPION. Finn, S.J. net, 
$1.00. 

DADDY DAN. Waggaman. net, $0.60. 

DEAR FRIENDS. Nirdlinger. m,$o.8s. 

DIMPLING’S SUCCESS. Mulholland. 
net, $0.60. 

ETHELRED PRESTON. Finn, S.J. net, 
$1.00. 

EVERY-DAY GIRL, AN. Crowley, net, 
$ 0.60. 

FACING DANGER. Finn, S.J. net, 
$1.00. 

FAIRY OF THE SNOWS. Finn, S.J. 
net, $1.00. 

FINDING OF TONY. Waggaman. net, 
$1.25. 

FIVE BIRDS IN A NEST. Delamare. 
net, $0.85. 

FIVE O’CLOCK STORIES. By a Reli¬ 
gious. net, $0.85. 

FLOWER OF THE FLOCK. Egan, net, 
$1.25. 

FOR THE WHITE ROSE. Hinkson. 
net, $0.60. 

FRED’S LITTLE DAUGHTER. Smith. 
net, $0.60. 

FREDDY CARR’S ADVENTURES. 
Garrold, S.J. net, $0.85. 

FREDDY CARR AND HIS FRIENDS. 
Garrold, S.J. net, $0.85. 

GOLDEN LILY, THE. Hinkson. net, 
$0.60. 

GREAT CAPTAIN, THE. Hinkson. net, 
$0.60. 

HALDEMAN CHILDREN, THE. Man¬ 
nix. net, $0.60. 

HARMONY FLATS. Whitmire, net, 
$0.85. 

HARRY DEE. Finn, S.J. net, $1.00. 

HARRY RUSSELL. Copus, S.J. net, 
$1.25. 

HEIR OF DREAMS, AN. O’Malley. 
net, $0.60. 

HELD IN THE EVERGLADES. 
Spalding, S.J. net, $1.25. 

HIS FIRST AND LAST APPEARANCE. 
Finn, S.J. net, $1.00. 

HIS LUCKIEST YEAR, Finn. S.J. 
net, $1.00. 

HOSTAGE OF WAR, A. Bonesteel. 
net, $0.60. 

HOW THEY WORKED THEIR WAY. 
Egan, net, $0.85. 

IN QUEST OF ADVENTURE. Man¬ 
nix. net, $0.60. 

IN QUEST OF THE GOLDEN CHEST. 
Barton, net, $0.85. 


JACK. By a Religious, H.C.J. net, 
$0.60. 

JACK-O’LANTERN. Waggaman. net, 
$0.60. 

JACK HILDRETH ON THE NILE. 

Taggart, net, $0.85. 

JUNIORS OF ST. BEDE’S. Bryson. 
net, $0.85. 

JUVENILE ROUND TABLE. First 
Series. net, $0.85. 

JUVENILE ROUND TABLE. Second 
Series, net, $0.85. 

KLONDIKE PICNIC, A. Donnelly. 
net, $0.85. 

LEGENDS AND STORIES OF THE 
HOLY CHILD JESUS, Lutz, net, 
$0.85. 

LITTLE APOSTLE ON CRUTCHES. 

Delamare. net, $0.60. 

LITTLE GIRL FROM BACK EAST. 

Roberts, net, $0.60. 

LITTLE LADY OF THE HALL. Rye- 
man. net, $0.60. 

LITTLE MARSHALLS AT THE LAKE. 

Nixon-Roulet. net, $0.85. 

LITTLE MISSY. Waggaman. net, $0.60. 
LOYAL BLUE AND ROYAL SCAR¬ 
LET. Taggart, net, $1.25. 

LUCKY BOB. Finn, S.J. net, $1.00. 
MADCAP SET AT ST. ANNE’S. Bru- 
nowe. net, $0.60. 

MAD KNIGHT, THE. Schaching. net, 
$.0.60. 

MAKING OF MORTLAKE. Copus, S.J. 

net, $1.25. 

MAN FROM NOWHERE. Sadlier. 
net, $0.85. 

MARKS OF THE BEAR CLAWS. 

Spalding, S.J. net, $1.25. 

MARY TRACY’S FORTUNE. Sad¬ 
lier. net, $0.60. 

MILLY AVELING. Smith, net, $0.85. 
MIRALDA. Johnson, net, $0.60. 
MORE FIVE O’CLOCK STORIES. 

By a Religious, net, $0. 85. 

MOSTLY BOYS, Finn, S.J. net, $1.00. 
MYSTERIOUS DOORWAY. Sadlier. 
net, $0.60. 

MYSTERY OF HORNBY HALL. 
Sadlier. net, $0.85. 

MYSTERY OF CLEVERLY. Barton. 

net, $0.85. 

NAN NOBODY. Waggaman. net, $0.60. 
NED RIEDER. Wehs. net, $o.8<;. 
NEW SCHOLAR AT ST. ANNE’S. 

Brunowe. net, $0.85. 

OLD CHARLMONT’S SEED-BED. 
Smith, net, $0.60. 

OLD MILL ON THE WITHROSE. 

Spalding, S.J. net, $1.25. 

ON THE OLD CAMPING GROUND. 

Mannix. net, $0.85. 

ON THE RUN. Finn, S. J. net, $1.00. 
PANCHO AND PANCHITA. Mannix. 
net, $0.60. 

PAULINE ARCHER Sadlier. net, $0.60. 
PERCY WYNN. Finn, S.J. net, $1.00. 
PERIL OF DIONYSIO. Mannix. net, 

$0.60. 

PETRONILLA. Donnelly, net, $0.85. 
PICKLE AND PEPPER. Dorsey, net . 
$1.25. 


8 


PILGRIM FROM IRELAND. Carnot. 
net, $0.60. 

PLAYWATER PLOT, THE. Wagga- 
man. net, $1.25. 

POLLY DAY’S ISLAND. Roberts, net, 
$0.85. 

POVERINA. Buckenham. net, $1.00. 

QUEEN’S PAGE, THE. Hinkson. net, 
$0.60. 

QUEEN’S PROMISE, THE. Wagga- 
man. net, $1.25. 

QUEST OF MARY SELWYN. Clem- 
entxa. net, $1.50. 

RACE FOR COPPER ISLAND. Spald¬ 
ing, S.J. net, $1.25. 

RECRUIT TOMMY COLLINS. Bone- 
steel. net, $0.60. 

ROMANCE OF THE SILVER SHOON. 
Bearne, S.J. net, $1.25. 

ST. CUTHBERT’S. Copus, S.J. net, 
$1.25. 

SANDY JOE. Waggaman. net, $1.25. 

SEA-GULL’S ROCK. Sandeau. net, 
$0.60. 

SEVEN LITTLE MARSHALLS. 
Nixon-Roulet. net, $0.60. 

SHADOWS LIFTED. Copus, S.J. net, 

SHERIFF OF THE BEECH FORK. 
Spalding, S.J. net, $1.25. 

SHIPMATES. Waggaman. net, $1.25. 

SIGNALS FROM THE BAY TREE. 
Spalding, S.J. net, $1.25. 

STRONG ARM OF AVALON. Wag¬ 
gaman. net, $1.25. 

SUGAR CAMP AND AFTER. Spald¬ 
ing, S.J. net, $1.25. 


SUMMER AT WOODVILLE. Sadlier. 
net, $0.60. . 

TALES AND LEGENDS OF THE 
MIDDLE AGES, de Capella. net, 
$0.85. 

TALISMAN, THE. Sadlier. net, $0.85. 

TAMING OF POLLY. Dorsey, net, 
$1.2 5. 

THAT FOOTBALL GAME. Finn, S.J. 
net, $1.00. 

THAT OFFICE BOY. Finn, S.J. net, 
81.00. 

THREE GIRLS AND ESPECIALLY 
ONE. Taggart, net, $0.60. 

TOLD IN THE TWILIGHT. Salome. 
net, $0.85. 

TOM LOSELY; BOY. Copus, S.J. net, 
$1.25. 

TOM PLAYFAIR. Finn. S.J. net, $1.00. 

TOM’S LUCK-POT. Waggaman. net, 
$0.60. 

TOORALLADDY. Walsh, net, $0.60. 

TRANSPLANTING OF TESSIE. Wag¬ 
gaman. net, $1.25. 

TREASURE OF NUGGET MOUN¬ 
TAIN. Taggart, net, $0.85. 

TWO LITTLE GIRLS. Mack. net, 
$0.60. 

UNCLE FRANK’S MARY. Clemen- 
tia. net, $1.50. 

UPS AND DOWNS OF MARJORIE. 
Waggaman. net, $0.60. 

VIOLIN MAKER. Smith, net, $0.60. 

WINNETOU, THE APACHE KNIGHT. 
Taggart, net, $0.85. 

YOUNG COLOR GUARD. Bonesteel, 
net, $0.60. 


VII. NOVELS 


ISABEL C. CLARKE’S GREAT 
NOVELS. Each, net, $2.00. 
AVERAGE CABINS. 

THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON. 
THE POTTER’S HOUSE. 
TRESSIDER’S SISTER. 

URSULA FINCH. 

THE ELSTONES. 

EUNICE. 

LADY TRENT’S DAUGHTER. 
CHILDREN OF EVE. 

THE DEEP HEART. 

WHOSE NAME IS LEGION. 

FINE CLAY. 

PRISONERS’ YEARS. 

THE REST HOUSE. 

ONLY ANNE. 

THE SECRET CITADEL. 

BY THE BLUE RIVER. 

ALBERTA: ADVENTURESS. L’Er- 
mite. 8vo. net, $2.00. 

AVERAGE CABINS. Clarke. net,% 2.00. 
BACK TO THE WORLD. Champol. 
net, $2.00. 

BARRIER, THE. Bazin, net, $1.65. 
BALLADS OF CHILDHOOD. Poems. 

Earls, S.J. net, 81.50. 

BLACK BROTHERHOOD, THE. Gar- 
rold, S.J. net, $2.00. 

BOND AND FREE. Connor, net, $0.85. 
BUNNY’S HOUSE. Walker, net, $2.00. 


BY THE BLUE RIVER. Clarke. 
net, $2.00. 

CARROLL DARE. Waggaman. net, 
$0.85. 

CIRCUS-RIDER’S DAUGHTER. 

Brackel. net, $0.85. 

CHILDREN OF EVE. Clarke, net, 
82.00. 

CONNOR D’ARCY’S STRUGGLES. 

Bertholds. net, 80.85. 

CORINNE’S VOW. Waggaman. net, 
80.85. 

DAUGHTER OF KINGS, A. Hinkson. 
net, $2.00. 

DEEP HEART, THE. Clarke, net, 
82.00. 

DENYS THE DREAMER. Hinkson. 
net, 82.00. 

DION AND THE SIBYLS. Keon. net, 
80.85. 

ELDER MISS AINSBOROUGH, THE. 

Taggart, net, 80.85. 

ELSTONES, THE. Clarke, net, 82.00. 
EUNICE. Clarke, net, 82.00. 
FABIOLA. Wiseman, net, 80.85. 
FABIOLA’S SISTERS. Clarke, n, 80.85. 
FATAL BEACON, THE. Brackel. 
net, 80.85. 

FAUSTULA. Ayscough. net, 82.00. 
FINE CLAY. Clarke, net, 82.00. 
FLAME OF THE FOREST. Bishop. 
net, $2.00. 


FORGIVE AND FORGET. Lingen. 
nel, $0.85. 

GRAPES OF THORNS. Waggaman. 
net, $0.85. 

HEART OF A MAN. Maher. «e<,$2.oo. 

HEARTS OF GOLD. Edhor. net, $0.85. 

HEIRESS OF CRONENSTEIN. Hahn- 
Hahn. net, $0.85. 

HER BLIND FOLLY. Holt, net, $0.85. 

HER FATHER’S DAUGHTER. Hink- 
son. net, $2.00. 

HER FATHER’S SHARE. Power, net , 
$0.85. 

HER JOURNEY’S END. Cooke, net, 
$0.85. 

IDOLS; or THE SECRET OF THE 
RUE CHAUSSE D’ANTIN. de Nav- 
ery. net, $0.85. 

IN GOD’S GOOD TIME. Ross, net, 
$0.85. 

IN SPITE OF ALL. Stanieorth, net, 
$0.85. 

IN THE DAYS OF KING HAL. Tag¬ 
gart. net, $0.85. 

IVY HEDGE, THE. Egan, net, $2.00. 

KIND HEARTS AND CORONETS. 
Harrison, net, $0.85. 

LADY TRENT’S DAUGHTER. 
Clarke, net, $2.00. 

LIGHT OF HIS COUNTENANCE. 
Hart, net, $0.85. 

LIGHT ON THE LAGOON, THE. 
Clarke, net, $2.00. 

“LIKE UNTO A MERCHANT.” Gray. 
net, $2.00. 

LITTLE CARDINAL. Parr. net, $1.65. 

LOVE OF BROTHERS. Hinkson. net, 
$2.00. 

MARCELLA GRACE. Mui, Holland. 


RED INN OF ST. LYPHAR. Sadlier. 

net, $0.85. 

REST HOUSE, THE. Clarke, net, $2.00. 
ROSE OF THE WORLD. Martin, net, 
$0.85. 

ROUND TABLE OF AMERICAN 
CATHOLIC NOVELISTS, net, $0 85. 
ROUND TABLE OF FRENCH CATH¬ 
OLIC NOVELISTS, net, $0.85. 
ROUND TABLE OF GERMAN CATH¬ 
OLIC NOVELISTS, net, $0.85. 
ROUND TABLE OF IRISH AND ENG¬ 
LISH CATHOLIC NOVELISTS, net, 
$0.85. 

RUBY CROSS, THE. Wallace.' net, 

$0.85. 

RULER OF THE KINGDOM. Keon. 
net, $1.65. 

SECRET CITADEL, THE. Clarke. 

net, $2.00. 

SECRET OF THE GREEN VASE. 
Cooke, net, $0.85. 

SHADOW OF EVERSLEIGH. Lans- 
downe. net, $0.85. 

SHIELD OF SILENCE. Henry-Ruf- 
fin. net, $2.00. 

SO AS BY FIRE. Connor, net, $0.85. 
SON OF SIRO, THE. Copus, S.J. net, 
$2.00. 

STORY OF CECILIA, THE. Hinkson. 

net, $1.65. 

STUORE. Earls, S.J. net, $1.50. 
TEMPEST OF THE HEART. Gray. 

net, $0.85. 

TEST OF COURAGE. Ross, nel, $0.85. 
THAT MAN’S DAUGHTER. Ross, net, 

$0.85. 

THEIR CHOICE. Skinner, net, $0,85. 
THROUGH THE DESERT. Sienkie- 


net, $0.85. 

MARIE OF THE HOUSE D’ANTERS. 
Earls, S.J. nel, $2.00. 

MARIQUITA. Ayscough. net, $2.00. 

MELCHIOR OF BOSTON. Earls, S.J. 
net, $0.85. 

MIGHTY FRIEND, THE. L’Ermite. 
net, $2.00. 

MIRROR OF SHALOTT. Benson, net, 
$2.00. 

MISS ERIN. Francis, net, $0.85. 

MR. BILLY BUTTONS. Lecky. «,$i.6s. 

MONK’S PARDON, THE. de Navery. 
net, $0.85. 

MY LADY BEATRICE. Cooke, net, 
$0.85. 

NOT A JUDGMENT. Keon. net, $1.65. 

ONLY ANNE. Clarke, net, $2.00. 

OTHER MISS LISLE. Martin, n, $0.85. 

OUT OF BONDAGE. Holt, net, $0.85. 

OUTLAW OF CAMARGUE. de La- 
mothe. net, $0.85. 

PASSING SHADOWS. Yorke. net, 
$1.65. 

PERE MONNIER’S WARD. Lecky. 
net, $1.65. 

POTTER’S HOUSE, THE. Clarke 
net, $2.00. 

PRISONERS’ YEARS. Clarke, net, 
$2.00. 

PRODIGAL’S DAUGHTER, THE, AND 
OTHER STORIES. Bugg. net, $1.50. 

PROPHET’S WIFE. Browne, net, $1.25. 


wicz. net, S2.00. 

TIDEWAY, THE. Ayscough. net, $2.00. 
TRESSIDER’S SISTER. Clarke, net, 
$2.00. 

TRUE STORY OF MASTER GERARD. 
Sadlier. net, $1.65. 

TURN OF THE TIDE, THE. Gray. 

net, $0.85. 

UNBIDDEN GUEST, THE. Cooke. 

■net, $0.85. 

UNDER THE CEDARS AND THE 
STARS. Canon Sheehan, net, $2.00. 
UNRAVELING OF A TANGLE, THE. 

Taggart, net, $1.25. 

UP IN ARDMUIRLAND. Barrett, 
O.S.B. net, $1.65. 

URSULA FINCH. Clarke, net, $2.00. 
VOCATION OF EDWARD CONWAY, 
THE. Egan, net, $1.65. 

WARGRAVE TRUST, THE. Reid, net, 
$1.65. 

WAR MOTHERS. Poems. Garesche, 
S.J. net, $0.60. 

WAY THAT LED BEYOND, THE. 

Harrison, net, $0.85. 

WEDDING BELLS OF GLENDA- 
LOUGH, THE. Earls, S.J. net, $2.00. 
*WHEN LOVE IS STRONG. Keon 

WMENAME IS LEGION. Clarke. 
net, $2.00. 

WOMAN OF FORTUNE, A. Reid, net, 
$1.65. 


10 



o § 












* V, 

s aO . I 

<■ °0 ® JsSTB 

,__ » >A^Js« 


. y . m g ? ! 1 

^ * 0 mI 


' ^c. O Or rJVW A) r ' <^r, \Y 

- % # . MM//% ° * <& 

' y % ... 



w 


,\V j 

.\V 1 


)y 0o x. 

’V 0 ^ 

*° /i;*'. <v . v 

v - _r\ n r< X' .v, 

** 


O UV 

^ *> W3iK\ir >s v.^ %<. K/ 

r <• ^ \^- 'V ^ y/ . v * ^ 

t 0 N C 9 \+ ' 1 * * s S ^ * V I 8 k < ^ p ' 0 » y * i Q N I 

*&: ^ 

^ * 






u s 




C*v 

y NX ^ s 

c£v 

& r. 

'> 

. / 

0 N 

W' * 

^ . 




Deacidified using the Bookkeeper proces 
Neutralizing Agent: Magnesium Oxide 


> ■> 

' J * * s S ^ v ii ,- 

<* ^ 0 V V /V>2^ -1 'P Vi 

•bo' •**. ^ 


Treatment Date: 




* 0< =<. 


* < 



1996 


AUG ~j 

BBKKEEPEB 


PRESERVATION TECHNOLOGIES, INC 
111 Thomson Park Drive 
Cranberry Twp., PA 16066 
(4121 779-2111 























V < B 




* '>V .a\ -x 

• : -v'v * o ^ 

^ * 0 f O vV .S^f. ^ s ^ 

^ - a'O t- <o c~- « »<• 

<£> V. 

» ^ ^ “ 

.j^ V "</> 

r>' _ *’ ■* 





^ t" « » %,'' ** '" o^ C \*’ 1 * * % '” * x t O N ‘ * ' ‘ 

* _J>tSr. t O ' ,Y?9-2-.' 1 j'fc * -s-r^. <* ' 

^ * '^4 -A' **■ 

+ 'Pj- W 




r. ,\V 

V> ,< V 




o 

-* v,fi « **% °* K ^ ^° N c */*b. 

1 . * ^v k /. O 


V 

<* '••'* r> 

* <A ^ r/\ V 0 > ■% * ^ As * 

%$ . M? 4 *. ■v-T “ <SP 

> </> 





-0 „X' - 

*<> ’J 


/* 

..0^ s-' 

V ^ 



V* > 


_ > r> - 

*cK ^ <y o'?* ^9’ ’O if „ , A * o, 1 ^ 

^ 0 N 0 0 V w * 0 ^ ^ 8 ' vX 

.4* V^J 1 . V i* .V, * 

,» ^ » 

4 - S > 2 > z 

\V if*. 


, ^ ^ ,**WV 0 

-v* ^ * 0 ■> -Cr 

V . s * <■ / ' N 's- 

V V s — ** s -0 V < 


x°°. 


'^i*- c v «* 

\ V 



V «r 

,* v i«“ c ♦:*£?, * ^..'’* 




S v\-: 




A <D *^\s .0 

^ c°* '^o **' f. , 


0 « >. 


*> > 


^ -^ V 

^ ,IU( 0 * y ■' 

v* -'Jr » 

* A X “• 

* « •< v- K 

^ s \° c ^<. 

^J * 3 n 0 ’ /; < * 0 , c %" • 1 1 *'v^s' ■ • '*% * 5 ~ 0 ’ ^°\ v. „ 

:^£ r - 



<H * 7 *j 

x v ^ s 

' o>‘ ^ v ,y 


(XV- « 1 1 8 * 

0° ^ 

^^ 

J, 00 - 




,r •% 




* -. 

V" rr'' ^ ,,, ^»'* * * 'r «. V* *.. ■♦ 

° r • % - 

; '^o' ^ > ®«w2 















































































